


Malcolm Tucker's Daughter

by rubywallace25



Series: Tucker, Cassidy, Smith and Kline [1]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Children, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, F/M, Foster Care, Glastonbury Festival, Miscarriage, Prison, Sam's obsession with stripy clothes, the angry spider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-07-23 14:12:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 20,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7466406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubywallace25/pseuds/rubywallace25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meet Chanelle Diamond Tucker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's outfit in this chapter can be found here- http://www.polyvore.com/adoption/set?id=205165001

This was the fifth time that month that they had come to see them.

She was a glamorous brunette who left behind a trail of expensive smelling perfume, with a taste for luxury, the real leather handbags, the designer coasts, the understated jewellery.

He was something different, alright he swathed himself in the same 100% cotton and cashmere of his wife, but unlike his wife, she felt as if she didn’t really understand him.

Plus he’d looked like a tortoise.

They wanted Deno, the wife was more forthcoming about it, but she could tell that they both wanted her brother.

Wanting her brother was not a problem, everyone wanted Deno, why wouldn’t they?

He was a cute three year old, with bouncy blonde curls and blue eyes, easy to mould, easy to pretend with.

She was the problem.

She was the one who sat sullenly in the corner, watching as other people fussed and petty over her younger brother.

The wife had tried.

Tried to be engaging, she’d smiled and chatted, but eventually she’d given up.

He was different.

That’s why she was so scared of him, because he wanted his wife to have what she wanted, and nothing was going to get in the way of that especially not a twelve year old with ‘behaviour difficulties’ and a chip on her narrow shoulders.

“You’ve got a face like a slapped arse, ye know that?” He’d said, as he’d stared over at his attractive wife colouring in pictures with the three year old boy they hoped to adopt.

They were smiling; his wife and her brother, while they sat on the outside perched on the edge of a nearby table, both watching each other, and the two people they cared about, most in the world.

“Look Malcolm.”

The wife had said as she’d held up one of the badly coloured pictures.

“That’s great, love.”

He called back, with a grin that never made it up to his eyes.  
She’d have to watch him, he was dangerous, and he knew how to play her game.

“You ‘ere cus your ballbags are in the same state as your face?”

It had been a warning shot, rather funny she’d thought for something off the top of her head.

“Where did you learn to speak like that?” He’d asked in a mocking her, unfazed by her question.

He might not have been fazed, but she was, trying to think of something else to say she’d pulled the hood of her tatty grey hoodie up over her head.

“Same place you did.”

He’d fixed her with a pair of beady eyes.

“Fuck me, ye look like a fucking caricature. If those DOSAC twats could see ye they’d wet themselves.”

He’d whispered the expletives, his wife and Deno never even noticed.

“DOSAC?”

She’d frowned, frowning was something she was good at, she’d spent the last twelve years of her life frowning.

“Before ye time love.”

He’d dismissed her with a curt nod.

She’d noticed how his fingers had tensed around the expensive looking woollen scarf on his lap.

“And for ye information there’s nothing wrong with my ballsacks, as you so sweetly put it. It’s Sam, her lady-ballsacks, don’t work properly.”

He’d squinted as he spoke keen to get the last word in.

She’d sniggered at that.

His fingers had left worrying the wool of his scarf, reaching into his pocked he’d pulled out a pair of reading glasses and dragged her file across the table top.

“Chanelle.”

He’d said her name as if it was a bad taste in his mouth.

“How’s this going to play out? How do ye eventually see this ending?”

He’d asked never taking his eyes from the printed words in front of him.

The truth was Chanelle didn’t know, she didn’t understand why they’d been sent to the children’s home in the first place, she’d been doing a good job taking care of Deno all on her own.

She’d washed him, fed him, and played with him, which is more than their Mother had ever done.

But his cough, she shouldn’t have let it get so bad, he’d had to go to hospital, he couldn’t breathe, he had pneumonia and she’d had malnutrition, well of course she had, all her food went to her brother.

“We stay together.”

Chanelle had said defiantly.

No-one was taking her brother away from her.

“But, nobody wants ye do they? They all want him, but not ye. Ye’ve got a bad fucking attitude.”

“We stay together.”

She’d repeated the mantra, the only mantra.

“Ye tough.”

Was it a trick?

She wasn’t sure if it had been a compliment or a statement of fact.

“Well, I think we’re about done here.”

He’d announced standing up abruptly.

“Sam love, it’s time to go.”

He’d called to his wife, and Chanelle had found herself feeling something strange, disappointment, what had she been hoping for.

Chanelle had watched as Sam had kissed the top of Deno’s head, the woman had looked as if she was about to cry as she’d said a lingering good bye to the little boy.

“Goodbye Chanelle, it was really great to see you both again.”

Sam had tried, she’d been smiling, Chanelle had shrunk back with the realisation that the brunette might be on the point of hugging her, but nothing had come of it.

For a person who disliked hugging as much as Chanelle, the strange pang of extra disappointment had been a surprise as well.

She’d sat in sulky silence watching as Malcolm Tucker and his wife Sam had left, and she’d known as she’d watched them go that this would be the last time she’d see them again.

Why had that thought made her feel so sad?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I've cracked and decided to add a second chapter to this.  
> I hope you enjoy reading it, thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments on the last chapter/first.

“We just need to pretend to be nice, normal people, for two hours.”

Sam says, her gaze focused on the road, as she turns on the indicator.

In Malcolm’s opinion his wife always indicates too early, they’ve had many fun rows about that in the past, today is not the day for fun rows, no today is about pretending to be responsible adults and decent human-beings.

Malcolm twists in the passenger seat, the leather beneath him squealing in protest, as he silently regards the woman next to him for a moment.

The passage of time has been far kinder to Sam, than it has to him; she’s still as radiant, as engaging as ever, while Malcolm feels as if he’s slowly disintegrating before the bathroom mirror each morning.

“I thought you were a nice, normal person?” 

“While I may be nice, no-one is ever likely to call me normal. Let’s face it,”

Sam pauses, while she gives her full attention to turning left.

“Let’s face it,” She picks up from where she left off.

“I willingly married you. That’s asylum territory, right there.” 

A quirk of a smile forms on Sam’s lips, Malcolm grins back at her, before glancing out of the window.

Everything is grey, the tarmac, the sky, the people, the houses, all grey as far as the eye can see.

Their wedding day had been iron grey, both literally and metaphorically.

No-one should get married on a Monday in January, when it’s raining, but they had.

The wedding had all been Sam’s idea, she’d proposed, no, not proposed, it was far more business like than that.

Sam had suggested the idea during a lunch with Malcolm’s solicitor, the three of them had been deep in thought trying to come up with some sort of defence, and Sam’s idea over a Madras curry, had been to get married.

Her theorising had been that a weeping wife, might have gone some way to sway the jury in Malcolm’s favour, or at least make him seem less terrible, more real, more human.

Of course it didn’t work.

So, with a trial pending and the storm clouds gathering them, Malcolm and Sam had wed in a boxy registry office in Hampstead, witnessed by his solicitor, Malcolm’s sister, nephew and niece, and Sam’s twin sister.

Without a doubt it had been the happiest day of Malcolm’s life, despite all the ill omens Sam seemed to enjoy it as well.

Crisis management.

Malcolm clears his throat as he turns his attention to the file spread out across his lap.

Their file.

“What about the other, thing?”

Dragging his glasses onto the end of his considerable nose, he reads the application, which has already been emailed ahead of him, but which also exists in a paper form between his fingers.

“What, you mean the bit where you went to prison for being a lying bastard? Yep, it’s in there. Remember the advice we got, as long as your conviction wasn’t for violence or well the other thing, so they’ll take it into consideration. Basically they can’t turn us down. They won’t turn us down.”

Malcolm’s not sure who Sam is trying to convince, but he nods along, reading away.

Eighteen months, that’s how long he’d had to rot away in prison.

On the plus side, as Sam had continually tried to tell him, he could have been going down for a lot longer, but the case involving Mr Tickle’s medical records had never got off the ground, because too many people had, had their hands in the same biscuit tin.

Lying under oath, that was different, Malcolm had done that twice, he’d perjured himself on national television, in front of a baying mob of the press, and of course Sam.

He’d been an idiot, to intent on saving his career, to notice the writing, which might as well have been in ten foot letters, daubed in blood across the walls.

IT IS OVER!

Shafted by his own particular party trick, that had been one of the hardest things to take, that in the end Malcolm Tucker had destroyed himself.

Prison wasn’t something Malcolm like to think too much about.

Two weeks into his extended stay Sam had lost the baby neither of them had known she was carrying.

“Maybe you should do the talking, people like you.”

Everyone fucking hates me, is the thought Malcolm doesn’t bother to articulate, because Sam knows him so well.

Malcolm had considered serving his beautiful, loving, loyal, recently miscarried wife divorce papers, cruel to be kind, a voice in the back of his head told him.

Sam was young, she was clever, she had a future, or at least she disserved one, not some old jail bird millstone around her neck.

But he’d been selfish, because he was selfish, and he wanted her, he wanted Sam to be his wife, he wanted her to be waiting for him when he got out.

Sam never would have signed them anyway; the woman is pathologically averse to doing the best thing for herself.

“Now, listen ye and me, have got to have a wee chat. I don’t want this turning into that fucking rabbit fiasco. We walked into that RSPCA to get a dog, and we left with two massive monster fucking rabbits. No rabbits Sam, I’m warning you. One kid, just pick one, and not a limpy one, or one with mental problems. Get a fucking toddler, something we can stick a lead on, if needs be.”

Sam’s laughing, she’s actually laughing at him.

“Are ye listening to me woman?”

Still laughing.

Malcolm likes to see his wife laugh, the way her face changes completely, the light, the abandon, how she doesn’t care how she looks.

“I never listen to you. That’s the reason, I’m so successful.”

That’s actually true, Sam is the successful one, now.

From PA to best selling author, that what the newly minted Mrs Cassidy-Tucker had been doing, while he’d been weeping into his pillow and counting down the days, Sam had been writing, books for children, and then young adult fiction.

She’s won awards.

She’s written an entire series about a spider with anger management issues.

His name is now linked to something positive, and entirely not shit, and Sam had done it all on her own.

I don’t need you, Malcolm Tucker, she had told him once full of self assurance, but I do want you.

Sam was now the one people came to see, and Malcolm did what he always did, tried to keep out of the way of the cameras. 

“Alright, JK-fucking-Rowling.”

He smiles indulgently at the woman by his side.

“You’re dropping all your f-bombs in the car, before the meeting, aren’t you?”

Sam giggles.

F-bombs, Jesus Christ, where did she learn to talk like that?

“Yes, I fucking am.”

Malcolm agrees.

He knee suddenly takes on a life of its own, bouncing away, the nervous tension searching for some way to leave his body other than his mouth.

“Relax, it will be alright. I promise.”

Sam takes one hand off the steering wheel, capturing Malcolm’s digits, giving him a reassuring squeeze before replacing her hand back on the wheel.

It all goes quiet after that, Malcolm’s leg stops dancing, and they sit in their normal companionable silence.

There had been other babies after that first one, four in total, and each pregnancy had ended the same way with lots of blood and tears, and the pair of them feeling broken all over, again.

Getting pregnant was never an issue, Malcolm just had to sneeze, and Sam would get a bun in the over, keeping the bun there was the issue, and one they weren’t able to fix.

Adoption. 

Sam’s idea again, after Malcolm had just finished painting the second coat of magnolia in the hallway, while admiring his work, she’d suggested adopting a baby.

In truth Malcolm would be happy for it to just be the two of them for the rest of his life, but a child is something that Sam has always wanted, so a child she shall have.

“Fuck, look at the size of the parking spaces!”

Sam’s veneer cracks a little as they pull up outside of the Hackney Adoption Service Centre.

Ah, Hackney the place Malcolm Tucker had finally been arrested.  
“Do you want me to wave you in?”

“Have you brought your flags with you, how close am I to the iceberg, exactly?”

Malcolm grimaced at his wife in mock annoyance. 

“Not close enough.”

He plants a quick kiss on the side of her head, before dethatching himself from the heated seat, and braving the miserable non weather to guide his wife into a nearby parking space.

Sam’s crap at reversing as well.


	3. The Weekend part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've skipped ahead a little here, the time line on this story is a little strange, but hopefully not confusing.

It had been months, then weeks, then days, and finally it was happening, Chanelle and her brother Dean were spending the weekend with Malcolm and Sam Tucker.

It had all been explained to Chanelle over and over again, where she’d be going, what they’d be doing, her social worker, Laura, was still banging on about it now as they navigated the busy London traffic.

Don’t get your hopes up, Chanelle had warned herself.

She could still dimly remember what it was like to have two parents, she’d done the foster care thing as well, she’d liked her foster family, but nothing lasted.

Sitting in the back of the car, forced to wear her seat belt like a good little girl, Chanelle held on tight to her little brother’s hand.

They would stay together, whatever happened, even if this didn’t work, they’d be together.

The problem was that Chanelle likes Sam, at first she’d written her off as one of those gold digging, stuck up bitches, someone who was too posh to push out their own kid, so they buy someone else’s’, but she’s not like that at all.

Sam is nice and funny, and she doesn’t talk down to Chanelle like every other adult, she actually listens, and she likes spending time with her.  
And Malcolm, well Chanelle had him pegged from the start, plus she enjoys the way he swears.

Yeah, The Tuckers are alright.

The house they pull up outside of is no big surprise, Chanelle has already Google Earthed it, it’s one of those Victorian, bow-windowed, red brick affairs, with lots of white painted wood and original features, all those houses look the same.

As Chanelle climbs out of the car, she takes a minute to look at the house, to imagine herself living in, because that’s what might actually happen, this might end up being her house, her home.

Stop that, the voice in the back of her head snaps.

Chanelle steps to one side, clutching her holdall to her chest, as Laura, the social worker, busily untangles Dean from his car seat.

Chanelle notices that the iron gate squeaks as it’s pushed open, that will be annoying, especially if her bedroom is one of the ones at the front.

She follows along behind Laura who is carrying Dean, noticing how well maintained the little patch of garden is, how neat the hedges are trimmed, which one of them is responsible for this, or do they pay someone to do it for them?

It’s strange to think of Malcolm and Sam existing in the world outside of The Children’s Home, Chanelle knows that Sam is a writer, she has no clue what Malcolm does, but it seems to pay well, she knows they both have jobs, but the rest of their lives is just a blank space to her.

Laura barely has a chance to lay a bitten nail on the doorbell, before the door is swung open and Sam appears looking excited and nervous, Chanelle wants to hug her, but she holds back.

“Hello, hello, come in.”

Sam says excitedly, ushering the three of them into a hallway, where Malcolm and an Asian girl Chanelle has never seen before are waiting.

Feeling nervous for the first time, Chanelle takes her brother’s hand as soon as Laura has lowered him to the black and white tiled floor.

“Oh Laura, this is my assistant Surita.”

Sam introduces the Asian girl, who stops checking her phone long enough to do an odd little curtsy to Laura as the pair shake hands.

Chanelle notices the look Malcolm gives Sam, as her assistant makes a fool of herself.

She tries very hard to disguise her laugh behind a hacking cough.  
“Right well, we’ve got some things to go though,”

Laura tries to cover her own amusement with an air of officialdom.

“Right, yes, why don’t we go into the kitchen, if you just, just follow me.”

Sam is acting like a cat on a hot tin roof as she leads Laura down the long hallway into the back of the house.

Chanelle notices Malcolm regarding the pair for a moment before he turns on Surita.

“The Royal visits over, you can relax.”

Chanelle snorts, and Malcolm catches her eye, raising one greying eyebrow.

“What?”

Surita glances up from her phone.

“Malcolm.”

Sam’s voice floats in from what Chanelle assumes is the kitchen.

“Surita, do you think it would be possible for you to take your phone into that room, and I dunno, every now and then glance up at your surroundings, and check that one of these two,”

He points at Chanelle and her brother.

“…haven’t stuck their fingers in a socket, or happy slapped the fish to death?”

“Nobody happy slaps, anymore.”

Chanelle takes the opportunity to point out.

“I don’t work for you.”

Surita observes, even from where Chanelle is standing the ignorance is palpable. 

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

Sam calls out again, and Chanelle notes the sound of discomfort in her voice.

Malcolm opens his mouth to say something to Surita, who is still staring at the phone in her hands, when Chanelle pipes up.

“It’s fine, I’m twelve, I can look after them.”

With that Chanelle grabs the sleeve of Surita’s blazer, and drags her into the living room, where the first thing she sees is the two perfectly white sofas, and the massive fish tank.

Dean squeals with excitement at the sight of all the tropical fish, while Surita complains and tugs her sleeve free of Chanelle’s grasp, explaining as she does that her blazer is new.

Chanelle drags a plush white footstall out in front of the fish tank, lifting her brother up onto it, to give the little boy a better chance to see all the fish.

Keeping one hand on Dean’s waist, Chanelle takes a good look at her surroundings. 

Varnished floorboards, an antique fireplace with a large mirror above, a coffee table, which has clearly never seen a cup without a coaster, and books, lots and lots of books.

This house barely looks lived in, Chanelle feels as if she’s fallen though the pages of some glossy magazine.

“’Ishy!”

Dean exclaims, and Chanelle smiles at her little brother.

“Good, ain’t they.”

She takes her eyes off her brother long enough to give Surita, who is perched on the edge of the sofa a good stare.

“You work for Sam, yeah?”

Chanelle asks, trying to engage the young woman in conversation.

To her credit, Surita does place the offending phone on the coffee table long enough to answer, Chanelle has a feeling that the defiance the younger woman displayed earlier had been more for Malcolm’s benefit than anything else. 

“I’m her assistant.”

“What does that mean?”

Clearly hoping the conversation would end with her job title, Surita steals a mournful glance at her phone.

“I assist her with stuff, like now, Sam doesn’t want to sit on the same table as Steve Fleming or Nicola Murray, at this book awards dinner thing, so it’s my job to email the people planning the event, to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Chanelle isn’t sure if Surita is actually stupid or just dumbing down for the sake of the children.  
The non conversation sags in the middle, until Surita pipes up.

“I also helped Sam buy all the stuff for your rooms.”

Their rooms.

They have rooms.

Separate rooms.

A room each, wait, that’s what separate rooms generally mean.

Chanelle doesn’t know how to react to this news, she has a room in this house, which is just for her.

“What kind of stuff?”

Chanelle asks trying to not sound interested.

“Well beds, but they got delivered. Um cushions, bedding, curtains, that sort of thing. They didn’t want you to have tellys, but kids like TVs, you’ve got TVs, because of me.”

That was the thing that had been missing; there was no television in the room, what a couple of posy berks. 

“Thanks.”

“No worries, it’s like my job.”

Chanelle feels a wave of relief when Surita finally cracks and lifts the phone back up from the coffee table, her eyes instantly glued to the screen.

Time seems to stretch on forever, until Laura is ushered into the room by Sam, Malcolm keeping an odd sort of distance from the pair.

“Alright well Chanelle I’m going to leave you now, but you have my number if you need anything, and you can text me whenever you feel like you need to.”

That’s code for if you need to escape.

As social workers go Laura is one of the better ones, she’s young, naïve and optimistic a couple of years of working in the care sector should rid her of all of that.

“No worries, I’ve got the phone.”

Chanelle pats the lump in her jacket pocket, the cheap pay-as-you go mobile she’d been given by the charity, to text Laura with in case of an emergency.

“Bye, bye Dean.”

Laura gives Dean a little wave, before disappearing back into the hallway.

The front door closes, and Chanelle realises that she’s all alone, bar Surita, for the first time with Malcolm and Sam.


	4. More of the Weekend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay so a little bit of context in my other story The Girl in the Attic, which is a prequel to this, Sam is shagging Adam Kenyon.
> 
> Also the mention of Fergus is a joke on the fact that in this Universe, MINE, almost everyone Sam has sex with ends up being gay.
> 
> So yeah enjoy, I'm not sure this is a good as the other parts, but I'm having fun writing it, and hopefully it's okay to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam's outfit- http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/set?id=205382247

Chanelle pushed open the door, the door to her bedroom.

The first thing that jumps out of her is the lack of pink, which is a good thing, because she positively hates every shade of the particular colour.

The second thing, is that this is HER room.

Chanelle edges her way over the threshold, her eyes dancing around the space.

There’s a bed running along the length of one wall, too large to be a single, but not quite a double.

There’s a small wardrobe filled with satin padded hangers, just waiting for clothes.

The TV Surita had mentioned earlier, sits adopt a chest-of-drawers, empty again, waiting for Chanelle’s belongings.

This is her bedroom.

Could be her bedroom if everything goes alright this weekend, if Malcolm and Sam don’t change their minds, decided to give having their own kid one last try, or decide they don’t want kids at all.

Above the large window at the end of the room, hangs a row of bunting, which have been cut out from the pages of an atlas.

That’s a nice touch, personal, Sam has remembered how much Chanelle has enjoyed hearing about her travel stories.

Sam has done a lot of travelling, mostly on a gap year, Asia, Australia, South America.

Chanelle has never been outside of London, she’d never thought of travelling, holidays fine, people go on holidays, she’d hoped to one day go on a holiday herself, but travelling that’s different.

Chanelle’s favourite story of Sam’s had been the one about the Viking writing in some place called the Hagia Sophia, she’d spent many a sleepless night trying to imagine exactly what Viking writing might look like, until she’d finally given up and Googled it.

Sam has a way of making the world seem so much bigger than Chanelle ever imagined it to be.

Chanelle has even started to imagine, just what it might be like to explore the world for herself.

Chanelle glances out of the window, which thankfully is not at the front of the house with the squeaky gate, but is instead at the back, just over the flat roof of the kitchen extension, over looking a small garden with a patch of grass, and an apple tree at the bottom.

She can see her brother Dean being shown around the garden by Sam, who is holding her hand very carefully.

She thinks she’ll break him, Chanelle thinks to herself.

The atmosphere in the room changes, and Chanelle suddenly feels that she’s being watched, before she turns around, she fixes her face into its usual sullen, unimpressed expression, banishing all the hope from her brown eyes. 

Hope has never been a friend to Chanelle.

Malcolm is watching her from the doorway, leaning against the glossy frame.

Chanelle gives him a shrug by way of greeting, before dumping her hold-all in the middle of the brand new bed.

“Rooms, alright.”

Chanelle observes, trying to hide any hint of her true emotion.

“Ye should let Sam know, she worked hard on it.”

Chanelle nods curtly, ever since Laura left, she’s felt ill at ease, as if at any moment she was going to say or do the wrong thing, and then all of this will come to an end.

Malcolm doesn’t help, he has this habit of looking at her as if he can see all the way to Chanelle’s spine, and it’s hard to conceal anything from him, that doesn’t make her appear to be a sulky brat.

Chanelle stands in the middle of the room, staring at the worn handles of her holdall.

“Have ye had lunch yet?”

“Laura fed us before we came.”

Suddenly that hurriedly eat tuna and sweetcorn sandwich isn’t sitting as well as it had done in the pit of Chanelle’s stomach.

“Only Sam suggested, well there’s this place around the corner, she thought maybe you and your brother, might like it.”

“They got ice cream and cakes, stuff like that?”

It’s Malcolm’s turn to nod, he looks morose, and Chanelle wanders if he actually wants her or Dean here at all.

Or maybe he just doesn’t know how to speak to you; a voice in the back of her head gives her a nudge.

“That’s fine, we’ll go, Deano loves cake.”

Chanelle flashes Malcolm a quick smile, and she’s rewarded by the sight of him relaxing a little, his shoulder sagging against the door frame as if he’d finally been able to exhale after holding his breath for a long time.

So, Malcolm Tucker is as nervous as she is.

That’s good, right?

 

 

In less than an hour Chanelle is seated in the sort of swanky up market bistro type place, that usually she’d be hurriedly waved away from for simply glancing through the window.

On first inspection of the bistro, Chanelle had been worried that she’d feel out of place, but no-one notices her or Dean, because they have the perfect camouflage of Malcolm and Sam, who look just like everyone else in the room.

“Oh Malc, you’ve got chocolate ice cream all over your mouth, how do you even do that?”

Sam giggles, and Chanelle smirks, Malcolm has somehow managed to end up with about the same amount of ice cream on his chin and around his mouth as Dean, who is three.

“I have not got anything on my face, woman.”

Despite this statement, Chanelle notices the way Malcolm pulls his hand across the lower part of his face in a vain attempt to try and wipe off the ice cream without anyone noticing.

“No, you’re doing it in the wrong place, here look, just let me.”

Chanelle can’t help but laugh, as she watches Sam take up one of the used napkins, lick the end, and attempt to sponge the mess of her husband’s face.

“Don’t ye come anywhere near me!”

Malcolm warns edging away from Sam, ducking away in his chair.

“I don’t know what you’re laughing about.”

Chanelle is taken by surprise as Malcolm wipes the back of his spoon across her nose leaving a long sticky trail of ice cream.

Chanelle instantly retaliates loading the spoon with the dregs of her Ice Cream Sunday, she aims for Malcolm’s face, but somehow manages to hit Sam square in the cheek instead.

For a horrible moment Sam looks at her with an expression of pure shock, and Chanelle is terrified that she’s done the wrong thing, but her fear subsides quickly as Sam dissolves into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

People are looking at them.

Chanelle clutches at her side as she struggles to breathe, tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

“Samantha.”

The sudden introduction of a man’s voice pops the bubble the four of them seemed briefly to exist in.

Hurriedly wiping the stain of the end of her nose, Chanelle stares at the man now leaning over Sam, he’s got a weirdly nondescript face, squinty eyes, and prematurely grey hair.

“Oh, Adam!”

Chanelle’s gaze flits briefly in Malcolm’s direction as Sam and Adam exchange a kiss on the cheek, his face has turned hard and cold, as if every winkle had been carved from the hardest granite.

“I saw you from over by the till, I thought it had to be you, you haven’t changed at all. Oh, hello Malcolm.”

Adam’s greeting is an obvious after thought, with his body leaning so far across the table he’s almost cutting Malcolm completely out of Sam’s sight.

This is weird and very uncomfortable, Chanelle considers exiting the table of the pretext of getting Dean cleaned up, but, but she can’t quite seem to manage it, she’s rooted to her chair as the drama plays out in front of her.

“Out with your, out with some kids I see, are you planning on sacrificing them later, Malcolm.”

Adam laughs from the side of his mouth.

“This is Chanelle and Dean.”

Sam does her best to seem her usual bright, bubbly self, but her delivery is off as she waves her hand in the direction of Chanelle and her brother.

Adam fixes them both with horribly insincere smiles. 

“It’s Mr Tucker to ye.”

“Oh come on now Malcolm, we’ve known each other for years, ever since you threatened to eviscerate me on the telephone.”

Chanelle has no idea what the word eviscerate means, but it sounds cool, she might even use it the next time she’s forced to start making threats.

“I’ve got no idea who the fuck you are pal.”

Malcolm’s grimace would certainly be a lot more impressive if only he’d remembered to wipe the ice cream off the lower half of his face.

“Malcolm!”

Sam’s voice rises as she chastises her husband, Chanelle guesses the chastisement has more to do with his use of the f-word, than the way he’s treating Adam.

“It’s Adam Kenyon, I’M Adam Kenyon.”

Adam Kenyon says in a voice is struggles to keep level, as he stares over his shoulder at Malcolm.

“I’ve no fucking idea who that is.”

Chanelle stifles a laugh behind her hand.

“Malcolm.”

“No Samantha its fine, advanced age, and all that.”

Adam’s squinting eyes are blazing with fury.

Anyway, Fergus is waiting in the car, I’ll Facebook you Sam, we can have a proper catch up.”

Adam goes in for another kiss, his lips brushing across the spot where Chanelle’s ice cream had hit Sam’s face.

“That sounds,”

Clearly struggling for a word to use, Sam quickly settles on nice.

“It’s been as terrible to see you as ever, Malcolm.”

Adam flashes Malcolm as passive aggressive grin, before sliding a pair of Ray Ban’s on the end of his nose and sauntering out of the bistro.

“You’re still Facebook friends with that, that,”

Malcolm rounds on his wife with an angry whisper, before catching Chanelle’s gaze.

“THAT mincing TWIT!”

Chanelle knows that TWIT wasn’t the word he’d been intending to use, but Malcolm was clearly mindful of receiving another rebuke at the hands of his wife.

Picking up the napkin once again, Sam takes Malcolm’s face forcefully between her hands and cleans off his chin.

“Yes, I suppose so, he seems to think we still are, does it really matter?”

To Malcolm it obviously does, Chanelle not sure she’s ever seen anyone look so jealous.

Chanelle clears her throat to diffuse the tension.

“Do you know where the bogs are, I’m gonna clean Deano up.”

“It’s nothing, he’s nothing, Malc.”

Sam reaches across the top of the table giving Malcolm’s hand a reassuring squeeze.


	5. Assume the Position

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little bit of Malcolm and Sam.  
> Where we learn Malcolm hates butterflies & Sam sleeps naked.  
> Sam's PJS- http://www.polyvore.com/weekend_pt3/set?id=205394508

“Useless, useless, she couldn’t organise her own funeral.”

Malcolm frowns as he squeezes a line of blue and white toothpaste onto the head of his electric toothbrush.

Studiously he avoids glancing in the bathroom mirror, he doesn’t want to see that haggard old man staring back at him.

“I don’t know why you don’t just sack her.”

Malcolm muses as he wanders out of the en-suite into the bedroom, clutching his toothbrush in one hand, running a towel across his damp hair with the other.

Sam is already in their bed, propped up on pillows, frowning furiously at the IPad clutched in her hands.

“I can’t get rid of another one. Do you have any idea, how hard it is to find an assistant who will actually come to our house? All the good ones, the clever ones, they’re all far too terrified of you to set foot in the place, that just leaves me with the likes of Surita.”

As Sam rails, Malcolm switches on his toothbrush, blocking out at least some of the noise.

“You know what she’s done now?”

He has absolutely no idea, nor does he care.

It’s not that he isn’t interested in Sam’s career, on the contrary, he’s proud of his wonderfully talented, clever wife, no, he just wishes she’d let him help.

Alright so being a PA to his wife is certainly a step down from being The Prince of Darkness, but Malcolm wants to do it, he wants to organise Sam’s schedule and arrange her meetings.

He’s too proud to ask, he wants Sam to do that.

“What has she done?”

Malcolm mumbles over the buzz of the toothbrush.

“Well, you know the talk I’m meant to be doing at my old secondary school?”

Yes, he did know about that.

“She’s only gone and arranged it for the Friday, I’m at Glastonbury!”

Ah Glastonbury Festival, his wife away from Thursday to Monday, in a tent with a pack of her Uni girlfriends.  
Sam had originally wanted Malcolm to come, that had been when partners were still invited, but he’d turned her down flat on the grounds that he wants to die having never spent a single night in a tent or a yurt.

And being seen, which a bunch of rowdy thirty and forty year olds, really isn’t his bag.

No, Malcolm is planning to stay at home and stare at the wall instead.

Sam continues to berate Surita as Malcolm steps back into the bathroom to spit in the sink.

Lifting his head back up, he catches site of himself and cringes at the memory of the conversation he’d once had with Sam about what they’d both been doing in the year 1992.

Malcolm had been 33 working in Fleet Street and married to his first wife, while Sam had been 13, still at school and in the local Brownie and Guides group.

The hazards of having a much younger wife.

“So, that’s it, that’s your suggestion, I just call the school myself and ask them to change the date?”

Malcolm frowns as he places his electric toothbrush next to Sam’s on the glass shelf above the sink.

The reason for this particular frown is because he can’t remember suggesting anything to Sam, had he been speaking, no he’d been to busy spitting at the time.

“That’s what you would have done for me.”

He calls out to her, as he discards the damp towel in the wicker washing basket in the corner of the white tiled room.

When he gets back into the bedroom Sam’s mood as flip flopped again, and he realises that she’s nervous.

How perfect Sam wants everything to be during Chanelle and Dean’s stay with them. 

Diffuse the situation with something, as this thought enters his head, Malcolm realises that his wife is wearing a stripy pair of silk pyjamas.

Sam follows his gaze and smiles.

“I know they’re bloody killing me, I’m not sure I’ve ever been this hot,”

That earns and eyebrow quirk, and the retaliation of a pillow flying through the air.

“…it’s just you know, I thought if the kids need something, well you’re a bit useless after midnight. So, it’ll probably be me, who has to deal with it, and I can’t exactly do that naked, now can I?”

Malcolm’s still a bit stuck on the useless after midnight bit.

Stepping towards the bed, Malcolm makes a start on removing the dozen or so scatter cushions Sam insists on covering their bed with.

“Why do we have some many fucking cushions? Every time I do this I feel like I’m stuck in a fucking Escher painting honed from actual cushions. This is how, I’ll probably die.”

That sentiment earns a giggle from Sam.

“One day I’ll take one and press ever so gently down on your face.”

Sam teases.

“Well as long as it’s not with one of the butterfly covered ones, I’ll be happy. I fucking hate butterflies.”

Sam fixes Malcolm with a stare that screams I KNOW, and he recalls the time they’d taken her goddaughter Livi to see a collection of otters and butterflies, at the aptly named Otter & Butterfly World, he’d managed to murder the hopes of an entire species when he’d batted one of the said butterflies away with his hand. 

Livi had exploded into hysterical tears, Sam had been on the point of divorce, and then to make the day even more perfect who should appear but Lord Julius Nicholson himself.

Truly a perfect day.

Removing the last cushion, Malcolm pours himself into the bed next to his pyjama clad wife.

Laying her IPad on the table next to her, Sam settles herself against Malcolm’s chest.

“Do you think there’s something about me, which turns men gay?”

She muses as she plays with the fabric of his t-shirt.

Startled by Sam’s question, Malcolm finds himself blinking down at the top of her head.

“I’m being serious. I’m probably the last woman Adam Kenyon slept with, and now he’s living with Fergus Williams. Not to mention my ex-husband, who is now remarried, to a man. I mean, it must be me, right?”

Are they actually having this conversation?  
“If I’m honest, the thing that first attracted me to you was your massive WANG.”

For that, Sam hits him very hard, very painfully on the shoulder.

“Ow, my brittle bones.”

Malcolm chuckles, feeling the weight of his wife’s body shift on top of him; he can tell that she’s laughing too.

They lapse into silence for a few moments, neither of them broaching the subject, both of them are desperate to discuss.

Malcolm thinks the day has gone well, surprisingly well, wonderfully well.

He’s started to picture a future for the four of them.

“Right,”

Malcolm says, breaking the silence.

“…assume the position.”

Lifting her head up from his chest, Sam stares at him blankly, her face a canvas of confusion.

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s Friday night, we always have sex on Friday nights.”

Horror struck, Sam just looks at him.

“No we don’t.”

“Yes we do, it’s a statistical fact, ye get more horny, as the week progresses. It’s the reason we never have sex on Mondays.”

Sam is quiet as she clearly struggles to come up with a counter argument.

“That’s not true, we do have sex on Mondays, your birthday was on a Monday this year, wasn’t it?”

Malcolm watches as Sam falters as little.

“No, it was on a Thursday.”

Unable to deny the horrible truth any longer, Sam asks in a very small, childish voice.

“Am I really that boring?”

Malcolm chuckles indulgently at her, planting as kiss on the end of her nose.  
“Yes, if I’m honest,it’s a struggle to be married to ye.”

Transferring his lips from the end of Sam’s nose to her lips, Malcolm kisses his wife.

“Now assume the position woman, preferably one of the boring ones, as I’m tired, it’s been a long day.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Sam and Chanelle bonding time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elsa Pataky is Chris Hemsworth's very, very, very, very lucky wife.

It was the sound of the crash and then the thud, which woke Sam from a particularly nice dream.

Chris Hemsworth laying under a palm tree, wearing a loin cloth, what more could any woman want?

Caught in that strange web between waking and still being asleep, Sam’s first thoughts are of burglars.

All the way back in the dim and distant period of her student days, Sam’s flat had been broken into.

The perpetrators had stolen everything that wasn’t nailed down, including a Peace Lily, she’d been attempting to coax into life.

Losing her computer, rent money, crappy television, which had mattered at the time, but the lasting effect of the night, had been one of severe discomfort and fear.

Sam had been afraid to be in her own flat, she’d grown clingy around her flatmate, and her boyfriend, she’d even gone home on the weekends.

Lifting her head up from the warmth of her pillow, Sam elbows Malcolm in his side, in a bid to wake him up.

Nothing.

Not even a snort of complaint; he just lays there breathing away.

“Malcolm.”

Sam leans over her sleeping husband, whispering in his ear.  
Nothing.

For someone who never used to find the time to sleep, he can sure sleep deeply.

One last try.

“Malc, Chris Hemsworth is here, he wants me to go and live with him in the Bahamas. You don’t mind do you?”

Absolutely nothing, Sam bets that Elsa Pataky doesn’t have to put up with this sort of thing.

Deciding to take matters into her own hands, Sam swings her legs out of bed.

“Useless after midnight.”

She frowns noticing the time on her phone- 01:40.

Clutching tightly to her phone, Sam collects up her discarded pyjamas, slipping quickly back into them, attempting to judge the button holes in the dark.

Reaching the door, Sam steals one plaintive look over her shoulder, wishing that Malcolm would just wake up, before thrusting it open and stepping out into the landing.

It’s not as dark as it should be, there’s a light on downstairs.

Creeping down the stairs, checking the front door with the light from her phone, Sam slowly realises that they’re not in fact being broken into, not tonight at least.

Her heart finding a sensible rhythm, Sam enters the kitchen to find Chanelle sat on the floor a tangle of bedsheets, sobbing heavily.

“Chanelle?”

“I’m sorry.”

Is Chanelle’s opening gambit, her eyes wide and blood shot.

“I didn’t see it, it was an accident.”

Chanelle concludes, and Sam spots the broken picture frame in pieces next to her.

“Oh Chanelle, this is nothing.”

Sam smiles as she collects the dustpan and brush from under the sink, sweeping away the broken glass and shattered wood.

Turning the picture over, she rests it carefully on top of the long table, which runs the length of their extended kitchen.  
“Why are you down here, did you need something?”

Chanelle shrinks back at her question, rubbing her red eyes with the heels of her hands.

Sam regards the situation for a moment, putting two and two together, incredibly slowly.

“There are always spare sheets in the airing cupboard in the main bathroom. Why don’t you give me those, I’ll put a load of washing on now, saves me doing it in the morning.”

Sam smiles as she holds out her hands for the urine stained sheets.

“It’s alright Chanelle, honestly it is.”

She tries her best to put the young girl at ease.

Horrible minutes tick by, and then finally just when Sam had given up hope of saving the situation Chanelle places the soiled sheets in her grasp.

Sam hurries into the pantry to deposit the bedclothes into the washing machine with a handful of towels.

“I’m sorry about the picture.”

Chanelle sniffs.

Sam gives her hands a quick wash.

“Don’t worry about it, I never actually liked the frame, it was something I know my ex always liked, so I made sure I got it in the divorce.”

Chanelle gives Sam a surprised look.

“You’re divorced?”

101- of making a child with an unstable home life feel secure, accidentally let slip that you’ve been married before, and all this might end in divorce, again.

“It was a long time ago.”

In a galaxy far, far away…

“How long were you married?”

Sam swallows thickly.

“Nine years.”

Almost ten, but she doesn’t add that last bit.

Standing in the kitchen Sam wishes she had something to do, out of the corner of her eye she spots the fridge, and hopes that somehow that will save her.

“How long have you been married to Malcolm?”

Opening the fridge door, Sam stares at the contents.

“Five years.”

She tells the jar of sundried tomatoes.

“Would you like a drink or a sandwich, I can make you some toast?”

With terrifying ease Sam finds herself slipping into a parody of Jewish Motherhood, so she is going to end up just like her Mother, the thought startles her.

“Can I have a coffee?”

Chanelle asks.

“No, it’s 2 o’clock in the morning you can’t have a coffee, Chanelle.”

Leaving behind the contents of the fridge, Sam flips the switch on the kettle dragging two cups off the drainer, filling them both with a green tea, tea bag.

“Did you and Malcolm have an affair?”

That question throws Sam completely off kilter.

“No, no, no, of course we didn’t. My first husband left me, he was the one that had the affair.”

Even now despite the humiliation, despite the fact that she’s since remarried, Sam still likes for everyone to know that it was Ed who did the cheating.

The kettle boils, and Sam places the mug of scalding green tea in front of Chanelle, who regards it as if it’s something poisonous. 

“Try it, you might like it.”

Sam smiles, as she slips into the space at the kitchen table, opposite Chanelle.

“I’ll pass.”

Chanelle pushes the mug off across the table, turning her attention to the smashed picture; she turns it over in her hands.

“That’s me, and my twin sister, Bex.”  
Sam blows on the cloud of steam.

Chanelle frowns down at the smiling faces of the two very different women.

“We’re non identical twins. It runs in my family on my Da's side.”

Sam clarifies, and Chanelle nods as if understanding some great mystery.

“That was taken at our younger cousin’s Barmitzvah, look at the state of my hair.”

Sam laughs, recalling the period in her life before she discovered hair straighteners. 

“It’s a big party to celebrate coming of age, it’s a Jewsih thing.”

Sam answers the question written all over Chanelle’s face.

“You’re Jewish?”

Not really anymore, Sam’s not sure she’s ever been very religious, being raised in the culture shock of Irish Catholicism and English Judaism, she’d struggled to pick a side, she’d spent most of her childhood completely confused between which was what, but in the end, she’d settled for her Mother religion.

With a good old Irish surname like Cassidy, Sam had observed Sabbath every Friday night.

“Non practising, but yes I am. And before you ask, no Malcolm isn’t Jewish, he’s a good lapsed Catholic, just like my Da.”

Sam takes a sip of her tea, and watches as Chanelle seems to change her mind about the contents of her own mug, dragging it back across the table to sit beneath her nose.

“You know everything about Dean and me, don’t you?”

Chanelle’s nose wrinkles at the bridge as she lifts the mug up to her mouth.

Sam nods, taking another sip, studying Chanelle’s reaction as she takes her own careful mouthful. 

The girl’s face clears as she swallows, clearly it wasn’t all that bad.

“Could use some sugar.”

Chanelle observes, before draining the mug in one swig.

Sam dissolves into a fit of hysterical giggles.


	7. Panic at the Picnic, Almost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm enjoying writing Malcolm and Sam so much I thought I'd do a bit more.  
> Enjoy.
> 
> http://www.polyvore.com/good_behavior/set?id=205695125- Sam's outfit from the flashback can be found here.

“Right, right this one, this one,”

Sam slurs as she speaks.

“Malc are you watchin’, this?”

She glances over her shoulder.

“I am enjoying the view.”

Malcolm grins up at her, shielding his eyes from the sun.

Sam had promised sunshine, and the sun was obedient.

It is a beautiful day, the other ten days had been rain soaked and freezing, but today is all blue skies and blistering sunshine, green grass, glittering water, mountains.

It’s enough to make you sick.

Sam is sticking her tongue out at him.

“This one is for the championship.”

She’s all breathy and excited.

Sam makes a show of wiggling her arse, as she lifts the golf club high over her shoulder, hitting the tennis ball with a surprising amount of accuracy from someone quite so drunk, Malcolm watches the ball has it sores high into the air, landing with a great splash in the centre of the loch. 

“She shoots, she scores!”

Sam gives a celebratory little whoop, before falling down onto the tartan blanket next to him.

Malcolm hands Sam, her crystal cut tumbler filled with the scotch he’d been bribed with so many years before he’d ever met her, it’s vintage by now, and oh so expensive, still at the time he would have preferred a nice KitKat.

KitKat Chunky, although they didn’t exist then.

Sam takes a swig of the contents of her glass, it means nothing to her.

“When are ye planning on entering The Masters?”

Malcolm’s face aches when he smiles, no one should be that out of practise when it comes to smiling.

“Dunno, when’s it on? I’ll see if I’m free, I might have a darts tournament on at the same time.”  
“Darts!”

Malcolm gives his wife a side long glance.

“Woman, ye are obsessed with darts.”

It was true, darts does seem to figure quite heavily in most of their conversations, it’s alarming.

Sam shrugs, discarding her glass, and slipping the remains of her Cuban cigar into her mouth.

She looks ridiculously, and sexy all at the same time, in the only way Sam can.

Relighting the end, she makes a better job of smoking it than Malcolm has ever done.

“It’s the sport of kings, you know?” 

Sam says as she reclines, one arm behind her head, the other hand around her cigar, as she blows smoke rings every now and then.

“What king ever played darts, for fucks sake?”

Malcolm joins her, his head resting next to her’s as together they stare up at the wide expanse of blue above their heads.

“Not darts, golf, golf is the sport of kings. I know you’re old and everything, but try to keep up.”

Sam giggles.

“I want a divorce.”

Sam giggles, again.

“Did you know,”

No Malcolm probably doesn’t, but his wife is clever, and even in this state she can still find interesting things to say.

“…Mary, Queen of You Fucking Scots,”

“Was that her official title?” 

Malcolm interrupts. 

“Yes. Anyway, listen, this is good.”

Sam elbows him hard in the ribs, in a bid to capture his attention.

“It better be.”

That earns him another hard nudge.

“Anyway, Mary, official title, used to play golf all the time.”

Rolling towards Sam, he plants a kiss on the side of her head.

“There was a lot of build up there, but nothing really happened, did it.”

“It’s a lot like our sex life.”

 

 

On waking, the first thing Malcolm notices is that Sam is absent from the space next to him.

He yawns hard as he attempts to cajole the rest of his body into waking up, it never used to be this hard. 

Extracting himself from the warmth of the duvet, Malcolm drags his dressing gown across his aching shoulders, as he shambles out of the bedroom.

Shambles, that’s what he is now, a fucking wreck, a monument to a life lived carelessly. 

Fucking Sam, why did she have to be born in 1978, why couldn’t he have met her fifteen years ago?

Malcolm does something he hardly ever does, and he lets himself think about his first wife Yvonne.

Yvonne who he did actually love, Yvonne who he never made any time for, Yvonne who left him for someone else with the capacity, the will to give her everything Malcolm had denied her for so long.

Attention and kids, in that order.

For a long time he’d despised her, blamed her for everything that had gone wrong, she’d cheated on him, HIM.

But is it really cheating, when your other half is a vague, blank shape in your life?

When they forget every significant event in your life, and mark your thirtieth birthday with a bouquet of flowers sent over by courier.

Yvonne visited him in prison.

Sam has absolutely no idea, and Malcolm hopes she never finds out.

Yvonne had requested to see him, and the old Malcolm, the twenty-two year old version of him, the one who’d seen the most beautiful woman in the world, and just had to buy her a drink, said yes, he would see her. 

Anyway, Malcolm had seen Yvonne for the first time in years, and the first thing he’d noticed was that she was much shorter than he remembered.

They didn’t really have much to discuss, they’d stopped talking to each other when they were married.

It had been nice to see her, none the less, to know that he hadn’t ruined her life.

No, it’s probably all for the best that Sam was born in 1978, because Malcolm would only have fucked up the best thing that ever happened to him.

Sam is in the kitchen, busily cutting the crusts of sandwiches, and generally looking pale and a little stressed.

“Gone a bit manic again, haven’t ye?”

Malcolm notices the wicker picnic basket on the kitchen table, the one they bought but never actually use.

“There was a thing last night, I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I thought why not do the picnic now.”

Malcolm doesn’t know where to begin unpacking that sentence, so he settles on a bit of heavy duty concerned frowning, before asking…

“A thing?”

“A thing with Chanelle.”

Sam doesn’t elaborate any further, and Malcolm doesn’t push the subject, instead he stills his wife, by wrapping his arms around her waist.

“I’m still not sure about them.”

He nods in the direction of her stripy pyjamas as he gives Sam a kiss.

The longer the kiss lasts, the less manic Sam appears to be.

The doorbell rings.

Of course, the doorbell fucking rings.

“That better not be Net-a-fucking-Porter, again. I’m warning you Sam, why can’t ye wear rags like me?”

Malcolm grows a little concerned when his wife doesn’t respond with one of her usual jibes.

Malcolm loves Sam jibes, he likes the fact that they show just how much they worship each other with continued bouts of belittling and bickering.

He opens the door in a huff, his mood darkening at the sight of Surita, his wife’s useless Personal Assistant texting away on the doorstep.

“What do you want?”

There really should be a fuck in there somewhere, but Malcolm knows how Sam feels about him swearing at her staff.

“I’m here for Sam, the interview at The Times is like at 10, and it’s 9 now, I thought we could plan an outfit or whatever. The taxi is waiting, also.”


	8. On the Mating Habits of the Aracnid and the Coccinellidae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a flashback, fleshing out a bit more the reasons behind Malcolm and Sam's planned adoption.
> 
> Warning- there are references to miscarriage, so I'm sorry if that triggers anything off for anyone.
> 
> Sam's condition does effect quite a number of women, and most of them do go on to have healthy babies, but unfortunately Sam isn't one of their number.
> 
> Mr Spider and Miss Ladybird are the main characters in Sam's Angry Spider series, they may or may not be based on Malcolm and Sam.
> 
> http://www.polyvore.com/miss_ladybird/set?id=206491519 - Sam's outfit & it's not black and white and stripy.
> 
> Also thank you for all the lovely kudos and comments so far.

“What do you think the logistics are for an Arachnid to fuck a Coccinellidae?”

Malcolm questions glancing down at his wife’s face.

Sam drags her attention away from the laptop resting on the top of the coffee table, which is currently showing coverage from the World Darts Tournament.

Malcolm still has no idea how his wife can derive so much pleasure from watching overweight men throw tiny, pointless arrows at round things.

It’s not even as if you could actually kill anyone with a dart, well alright, maybe if you shoved one into an unsuspecting eye socket, but still it’s not even a proper arrow.

Watching darts is at least preferable to being beaten by Sam down their local pub.

Darts and pool, he wonders if his wife was some sort of hustler in the past.

“Is this your roundabout way of asking, if Mr Spider and Miss Ladybird, are ever going to get together?”

Sam smiles up at him.

Stretched out along most of the sofa with her head resting on a beaded cushion on his lap, Sam is grinning sleepily up at him.

She’s perfect.

Malcolm clears his throat, and turns the page on his perfect wife’s latest book, which isn’t quite a book, because he’s copy reading it for her, before the publishers get hold of it, and pick the whole thing to pieces.

Apart from the first two books, during which Malcolm had been incarcerated, he’s copy read all of The Angry Spider stories.

“They’re fictional characters written for children, they don’t have genitals, and they can talk. It’s safe to say, the mechanics of fucking, are never going to be an issue for them.”

Sam muses. 

“But, if you’re that interested, there are some choice pieces of Fan fiction.”

“Have you been Googling your name, again?”

Malcolm frowns down at Sam in mock annoyance, giving her his best attack brows.

Sam takes absolutely no notice.

“I might have done.”

She giggles.

But that smile, that infectious smile of her’s, doesn’t quite make it up to her eyes.

Sam’s eyes are sad.

Malcolm carefully rests his wife’s hard work on the edge of the sofa’s arm, before laying his hand on the top of her forehead.

Sam stares up at him, and neither of them say anything, well they don’t vocalise it at least, and they just look at each other.

“I don’t want to do it, again.”

Sam speaks first, puncturing the bubble, and Malcolm knows she's not talking about Googling her name.

Malcolm removes his hand.

“I know.”

All of a sudden Malcolm feels tired, properly tired, Number 10 tired, as if he hasn’t seen his bed in years.

Resting his head on the back of the sofa, he gazes up at the ceiling above them, the crack that runs all the way down the middle.

“You haven’t said much.”

Malcolm’s eyes burn into the crack above his head.

“Only, I don’t want to feel like I’m taking something away from you.”

Sam is thinking about him even now, when it should be all about her.

Malcolm has never wanted kids, and not in an ‘I’m too busy, maybe next year, love’ way, he’s never wanted them.

For years, his first wife Yvonne had routinely brought up the subject, and he’d managed to put her off, until one day she’d finally left him, shacked up with some lecturer and started producing sprogs of her own.

If Malcolm had given Yvonne a baby, he thinks she could have put up with the rest, the late nights, the early mornings, the constant bouts of loneliness, they’d still be married now.

God, what an awful thought. 

Despite his aversion to any children of his own, Malcolm gets on well with his niece and nephew, Issy and Colin, they’re bright and funny kids.

He doesn’t even mind Livi, Sam’s selfish, little madam of a Goddaughter.

But, none of them are his children.

His children had all ended up the same way, a bloody mass leaking down his wife’s legs.

Poor Sam.

“Do we have to talk about this?”

Please, no.

Sam starts to cry.

Malcolm always seems to be the reason for Sam's tears one way or another.

His heart hurts, as he feels her body rocking, her shoulders shaking under the weight of silent tears.

He’s crying too.

Malcolm doesn’t realise it at first, but he’s crying as well.

“Oh Sam, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, love.”

Leaning over Sam, cupping her face desperately in his hands, he peppers her wet, salty skin with kisses, apologising between every breath.

“I thought this time.”

Sam sobs.

It had all been too much to hope for.

At the time, when they’d found out she was pregnant for the forth time, Malcolm’s only defence against hope and the inevitable, had been to pretend none of it was happening.

Hope is a terrible thing on the scaffold, he’d learned that lesson in the dock.

“It’s all my fault.”

“No, no never, never.”

Sam has a Bicornuate womb, her womb is in the shape of a heart, with the same dip in the middle.

It had shown up on Sam’s scan for their second baby.

It explained Sam’s history of miscarriage, the baby she’d lost when Malcolm had been in prison, and the one before that, the miscarriage she’d always suspected she’d had, while she’d still been married to her first husband.

The Doctor had calmly explained that it was a condition that affected a number of women, and many of them had gone on to successfully carry babies, to become Mums, but their was a higher risk of miscarriage, and deformity due to the crowded space the baby would have to grow in.

Unlike all those other women, the success stories, Sam had never been able to carry a baby past the four month mark.

If only it had been him, if only he had been the problem.

Malcolm would give anything, do anything, for Sam to be able to be a Mum.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I reversed this a little, Sam's bit in the taxi happens after the bit at home, I liked the way it read, so sorry if it doesn't make sense.
> 
> Also had to slip in a cheeky reference to Doctor Who.
> 
> http://www.polyvore.com/interview/set?id=205996634 -Sam's interview outfit.
> 
> Read & Enjoy.

“Did you know that on the Titanic, the band just stood around and played their fiddles? I don’t care everyone; I’m going to play my fiddle.”

Sam had forgotten.

Sam never forgets.

She’s got a perfect memory, that’s what made her such a bloody good PA, and she was good, no false modesty about it, Sam Cassidy-Tucker was the best PA in the world.

So, how had she forgotten this?

The interview at The Time had been in her diary for weeks, Cressida Chung who manages her PR, had emailed the questions to Surita, who in turn had sent them to Sam, and Sam had read them.

Then she’d gotten Malcolm to check them over, because The Times doesn’t do copy approval, and she didn’t want to be blind sided by any awkward questions.

Sam hates the press.

She hates having to give interviews.

She hates being on television, she’d been sick twice before appearing on the BBC’s Meet the Author.

Some how though, Sam manages to get through it, because she has to, its part of the game, books need promotion, authors need to be wheeled out in front of their adoring public.

And this book, needs a lot of promotion, no more Angry Spider stories, no-more tomes for the under 5s, Sam’s trying her hand at YA- or Young Adult Fiction.

She barely remembers what it was like to be a teenager, and now she’s writing for them.

It’s a hard market to crack, or so she’s been warned, saturated to the point of over consumption, ideas have to be pretty bloody spectacular to gain any traction at all.

Sam is, at least she thinks her book is pretty bloody spectacular, writing it had been like living in a dream for four months, just her, the laptop, and a shadowy world that had slowly bloomed into life with every keystroke. 

Poor Malcolm, Sam always neglects him a bit when she’s writing.

How will she cope with the children?

That’s been a recent concern of Sam’s, she doesn’t want Chanelle or Dean to feel abandoned all over again, while she hides herself away in the study and plays make-believe, talking to herself for hours on end.

It’s not like she writes all the time, though, and they’ll both be at school and or playgroup, Malcolm will be there, and…and…and…

That's why Sam had forgotten the interview, because she’d been to busy thinking about the children, Chanelle and Dean.

Sam catches her reflection in the glass of the taxi cab’s window, she’s smiling, again.

School and playgroup.

Two institutions, Sam had feared she’d never get the chance to be involved in as an adult.

If everything goes as it should, as Sam hopes, they’ve picked out a lovely school for Chanelle to attend.

At first Malcolm had been a bit dubious about the idea of a private school, well he would wouldn’t he, but Sam had insisted, after all it had never done her any harm.

Besides, Sam wants to give Chanelle the best.

Sam drags her attention away from her smiling reflection.

“Sorry, what?”

She frowns at her PA Surita.

“On the Titanic,”

“Yes, no, I heard that bit,”

Sam shuts Surita down before she has the chance to start up, again.

“I don’t understand the point you’re trying to make, I asked you about who was doing my interview instead of Ben, and you started talking about the Titanic and fiddles. And let me just say on that point, they weren’t all playing fiddles, the terms is, violins, and generally they were considered to be rather brave.”

Sam remembers to breathe.

She breathes.

Surita stares at her, blinking every now and then to prove she is actually still fully operational.

“It’s like, just a film, Sam. Also, Ben’s replacement is someone called Marianne Swift.”

 

 

 

“Are all your clothes the same colour?”

Chanelle asks, sat on the sofa, as Sam dashes into the living room modelling yet another monochrome garment.

At least this one doesn’t have stripes, Malcolm’s not sure if his wife is trying to make some sort of covert illusion to his incarceration.

“I never noticed how much ye resemble an optical illusion.”

Malcolm observes.

Sam gives him a look, and he knows for that little comment, she’s not going to let him have a proper orgasm for a week.

Still, Chanelle thinks it’s funny, even Surita cracks a smile, Dean is too busy watching the fish.

“Nice shoes, though.”

Sam’s cheeks flush.

Manolo Blahnik, they’re the shoes Sam wore during Malcolm’s birthday surprise this year, when apart from the presents and the dinner she’d treated him to, Sam had also indulged his secret passion for all things Doctor Who.

Roleplay wasn’t something Malcolm really goes in for, but Sam pretending to be the newly regenerated Doctor in one of his old suits, and in those shoes, was something that would stay in his personal wank bank till the day he dies.

Fucking brilliant, best birthday ever!

Malcolm glances at his watch, Sam is running beyond late.

“Chanelle, yer on point, alright, lass.”

Malcolm tells the very capable girl, as he heads out of the living room and up the stairs, trailing behind Sam.

Their bedroom looks like a tip, a clothes explosion, and in the centre stands Sam, huffing away to herself as she struggles to zip up her skirt.

“I’m wearing this!”

She announces, as Malcolm carefully edges towards her.

“I can see.”

“The zips stuck.”

Malcolm’s not sure he’s ever seen Sam in such a state.

Always unflappable, this morning she is well and truly flapped.

Even when he’d been sent down, when he’d been looking at doing five years in prison, Sam had been calm, and serene, and informed him that they would appeal.

They had appealed, and he’d been out in eighteen months.

The zip isn’t stuck, Sam’s just managed to twist a wad of her shirt into it, Malcolm untangles the whole mess in a minute, before zipping her back up, and giving her bum a cheeky squeeze.

Usually bum squeezing elicits a positive or negative reaction, but Sam’s only response is to sink down on the edge of the bed and frown.

“Are you going to be, alright?”

Her face is full of concern.

Malcolm settles himself down next to his wife, taking one of her hands in his own.

“This was bound to happen, one day,”

He brings her hand up to his lips and kisses it lightly.

“Ye'd have to leave the kids, alone with me at some point. I promise, I won’t sell either of them for under the market value.”

Malcolm teases Sam, trying his best to get her to smile, it works, she punches him hard in the arm, and then she grins.

“Now fuck off to The Times, beautiful wife.”


	10. Mona You Told Me You Were In A Coma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments and kudos, I hope you enjoy this chapter.
> 
> The title comes from a line in the song Carol Brown by Flight of the Conchords.

Chanelle’s gaze wanders across the mantle piece.

She’sbeen so busy in her perusal of the living room the day before, she hadn’t noticed the collection of photographs that crowded the mantle.

Chanelle stared at each image in turn, she recognised Sam with her twin sister Bex, Bex who was all curly blonde hair and green eyes.

The two women looked so different; they barely passed for sisters, let alone twins.

There were more pictures of Sam than Malcolm, Sam with her sister and what Chanelle assumed to be their parents, Sam taking after her Mum, and Bex taking after their Dad in the looks department.

Sam with friends. 

Sam with the children of friends.

Sam standing in front of various landmarks.

Smiling, always smiling.

Malcolm only made it into two photos.

The first one was with Sam, and Chanelle assumed it was the pairs wedding day, the white dress and the bouquet sort of gives the game away.

It wasn’t a particularly flashy image, it didn’t look like a professional job, rushed was the impression it gave off, and of course happy.

Sam’s smile in that photo was at least ten times wider than in any of the others, one arm looped into the circle of Malcolm’s, the other hand clutching a bouquet of pale pink and white roses, Chanelle had never seen anyone look so proud.

Malcolm on the other hand appeared to be stoic, but Chanelle thought his expression had more to do with the fact that he looks seriously creepy when he smiles, than the fact that the woman glued to his side had forced him down the isle. 

Chanelle had always considered Malcolm and Sam to be a mismatched pair, he was grey and un-nerving, and she was pretty and fun, but there in that single image, they seemed for the briefest of moments to fit together perfectly.

She’s getting soppy in her old age.

Chanelle quickly turns her attention to Malcolm on what appears to be some wind blown mountainside, a ginger child tucked under each of his arms.

A boy and a girl.

Malcolm appears to be at least ten years younger, his hair is an actual colour, a sort of fading off brown.

Are those his kids?

Is Chanelle about to find out that not only may she be getting a new set of parents, but a brother and sister as well?

Why adopt, when Malcolm already has his own?

Chanelle already hates the smug look on the girl’s face, chubby, and ginger, with braces, she’ll enjoy making her life a misery.

Glancing up Chanelle catches the reflection of Malcolm and Sam in the hallway.

The mirror in the hallway reflects back into the one sitting over the mantle piece in the living room, so Chanelle has an almost perfect view. 

Sam looks green.

Surita has already drifted off to sit in the taxi.

Malcolm is leaning against the wall talking to Sam in a tone that Chanelle can’t quite hear.

They’re not having a row, Chanelle has seen enough of those to be able to spot the signs from a mile away.

Not an argument, encouragement maybe.

Sam appears a lot less green, and a little more white, as she pokes her head around the living room door.

“Sammy!”

Dean makes a bolt for it, running towards the woman he’ll probably end up calling Mum, because he’s far too young to remember their real Mum.

Chanelle notices that Sam smiles at Dean with the same intensity that she had in the wedding photo, as she sweeps him up into her arms, resting his weight against her hip.

Chanelle spots the way Malcolm watches his wife with her brother, and she knows that the ginger trolls in the photo aren’t his kids.

“Right, now I’m not going to be gone for long. I’ve left a list of activities the three of you might like to do together, and the picnic, should go back in the fridge.”

Sam seems to be addressing the entire room.

Activities sound frankly awful to Chanelle, she’d much rather…what exactly, sit in her room and watch telly?

At least she has her own telly here, back in the kid’s home she has to share the communal one, and all that’s ever on that are music videos and soaps.

Chanelle hates soaps.

There had been a stage in her life when she’d also hated soap.

“Text me where you are.”

Every fibre of Sam’s body screams that she doesn’t want to leave, Chanelle would gladly go in her place, she wouldn’t mind getting interview by some fancy newspaper.

In the end Malcolm takes Dean from Sam’s arms, ushering her out of the door.

Malcolm turns on Chanelle and Dean clapping his hands together, saying…

“So, breakfast.”

 

Sam first encountered Marianne Swift at one of Adam Kenyon’s parties.

She’d still been going out with Adam then.

Adam had been off in a corner chatting/snogging away with Fergus Williams, while Sam had been obliviously knocking back vino in the kitchen. 

Not only is her womb faulty, but Sam’s vagina has the singular ability to turn men actually gay.

Maybe one day she’ll come home to discover Malcolm dry humping their postman.

NO!

Anyway, Marianne, one of Adam’s non-friends had ambushed her in the kitchen, she’d been funny and chatty and nice.

Of course Sam hadn’t been drunk enough to say anything damaging, she’d mainly bemoaned Adam’s lack of attention, and Marianne had smirked.

The next time Sam had encountered Marianne was at Malcolm’s trial, the verdict to be precise, when the whole world had collapsed around her like soggy cardboard, and the last thing she’d seen before being bundled into a taxi by Malcolm’s sister, was Marianne’s smirk.

Marianne wasn’t smirking now.  
She looked older, care worn, in need of a good rest, and a decent hair cut. 

The interview had gone well.

Sam had drunk so much water throughout, that her bladder was now fit to bursting, but on the whole everything had gone smoothly.

“Would you mind signing this for my son, he loves The Angry Spider stories.”

Marianne produces a well worn copy of Sam’s second book in the series, the one that had been the hardest to write, her follow-up album.

Sam stares at the familiar cover.

Son.

Ollie Reeder, has a son?

Sam was still enough in the loop to know that Ollie Reeder and Marianne Swift were an item, but children, that she didn’t know.

Sam feels angry and sad and heart broken all at the same time, that people like Ollie and Marianne can have a son, while…

“Of course.”

She clears her throat, taking the book, opening the cover, reaching for one of the pens on the glass topped table between them.

“What’s his name?”

“Harry. Since his Dad left, well these stories are the only things that seem to get him off to sleep, you’re really sure, you’re not going to write any more?”

Ollie’s left them?

He always was a snivelling waste of space, but to leave his son, no wonder Marianne looks such a mess.

Sam feels sorry for her. 

“Never, say never.”

 

To Harry,

I’m so glad you like my stories.

The next one I force this lady to write will be just for you, but sssush, don’t tell anyone else.

Look after your Mummy.

Mr Spider.

 

Sam clicks the end of the pen, and hands the book back to Marianne.

“Ollie’s fucked off to America, taken that job, the one Malcolm turned down.”

Sam bristles at the way Marianne mentions her husband’s name as if she knows him well.

Then her brain engages.

America.

What job in America?

Malcolm had never discussed with her, the prospect of getting a job in America, or turning one down for that matter.

“Well, Ollie has always had a thing about your husband’s leftovers.”

At some point Malcolm has slept with Marianne Swift.

What a wonderful way to find out something Sam, never wanted to know.

Maybe Sam will Facebook Adam Kenyon, just to piss Malcolm off.

No, Sam's not going to do that, because she's not an absolute child.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning a certain C-word gets used, sorry for any offence.
> 
> Thank you for reading and commenting everyone, it means tons and tons.

Interview over, where are you?

Sam is determined not to leave her customary x.

Outside the Natural History Museum, oh beloved wife.  
Mxxx

 

Sam is disarmed the moment she sees Malcolm sat on the bench chatting casually with Dean.

He’s good with kids.

His niece and nephew simply adore him, and he can even manage Livi, which is a serious achievement.

Sam loves her God-daughter, but Livi is hard work.

She wants to burst into a sudden flood of tears, because she’s so happy.

And angry.

Sam has almost forgotten how angry she is.

America.

Why hadn’t Malcolm consulted her before he turned down the job?

So, alright, Sam doesn’t actually want to live in America, that’s not the point, the point is that Malcolm has kept something absolutely massive from her, and she’d been in blissful ignorance.

“Oh hey Sam, this is for you.”

Chanelle appears from nowhere, handing Sam one of the four ice cream cones she’s holding, two cones for each hand.

Sam takes the proffered ice cream, which just happens to be pistachio, her favourite flavour.

Her face must be a picture of confusion, because Chanelle is suddenly explaining.

“Malcolm said you were on your way.”

“Did he, now.”

The ice cream beginning to melt, Sam steals a lick before it has a chance to roll down onto her fingers.

Chanelle dashes off to join Malcolm and Dean on the bench, handing each of them their ice cream of choice, while giving Malcolm the change.

“Sammy!”

Dean exclaims excitedly at the sight of Sam, chocolate ice cream already covering his face.

“Hello, little man.”

Sam grins as she gives her ice cream another lick.

“Tracker still working, I see.”

Malcolm winches up at Sam, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun with his hand.

She’d bought him a pair of perfectly nice, very expensive sunglasses, which Malcolm being wilful and difficult always ‘forgets’ to bring with him.

“Budge up kids, lets see if the bench can take Sam’s bum, as well.”

“Bum!”

Dean giggles excitedly, and Chanelle manages a snort.

The bench does in fact have just enough space for Sam to squeeze onto it, with Chanelle and Dean sandwiched between her and Malcolm.

The four of them sit for a while, in comfortable silence, the odd juddering thump as Dean kicks his legs happily.

Ordinarily Sam would struggle with this, the small patch of railed of grass around the museum is practically teaming with children.

Excited whoops, and overtired tears assault her from every direction. 

Buggies and the outline of expectant Mothers, family groups, all the things that Sam struggles to cope with in day to day life.

But, not today.

Today the sting isn’t half as bad.

Sam turns her attention to her little non family, running her hand across the top of Dean’s curly head.

“What have you three been up to?”

“Breakfast. Chanelle also Googled Quinoa, so thanks to the power of the internet we now know what that is.”

From the pocket of his navy blue blazer, Sam watches as Malcolm produces the said Ray Bans, she’d bought him, dragging them on to the end of his beaky nose.

Despite herself, Sam smiles, the corners of her mouth twitching.

“You’ve got some weird food in your fridge.”

Chanelle observes.

Sam makes a mental note not to let the children have any more ice cream over the course of the weekend, afraid of what it might look like to Social Services.

“No, we don’t.”

“Yes, we do.”

Malcolm nods in agreement with Chanelle, and as touching as that is, Sam can’t help but remember her husband’s eating habits before she’d thoroughly detoxed him.

“This from the man who used to think Red Bull was part of his 5 aday.”

“Exactly, one of my five cans.”

Sam rolls her eyes.

“We are going to be able to have pizza and chips, and stuff like that right, we don’t have to eat the rubbish you two do, do we?”

Chanelle’s question gets muffled as she bites into her cone, sending sand covered flakes across her jeans.

Sam hadn’t actually considered the children’s dietary requirements, she’d held out hope that they might actually enjoy healthy Mediterranean salads, and foods not swimming in additives.

Who is she kidding, Malcolm doesn’t like healthy Mediterranean salads, what hope is there for Chanelle.

Does it make Sam a snob if she can’t remember the last time she ate a chip?

Maybe they should buy a fryer and from now on Malcolm should be responsible for all their meals.

Or not, since he’s perilously close to type two diabetes. 

“Pizzas humm.”

A nice home made pizza with lots of vegetables, and home made tomato sauce is perfectly manageable.

Chips on the other hand will never be made in Sam’s kitchen.

Never.

Ever.

Well, with the exception of birthdays, or exam/personal success. 

Chanelle and Dean have both finished their ice creams, and the little boy is now staring forlornly at a group of equally excited toddlers.

“He wants to play, can I take him over?”

Sam nods.

Taking her little brother’s hand carefully in her own, Chanelle leads Dean in the direction of the other children.

Malcolm takes the opportunity to scoot a little closer to his wife, one arm draped over her narrow shoulders.

That’s not happening.

Snatching Malcolm’s ice cream out of his grasp, Sam leaves the bench, depositing what’s left of their cones in a nearby bin.

“Hey, I hadn’t finished that!”

Malcolm complains bitterly.

“You’re not supposed to eat the cone.”

Sam informs him, as she ducks out of the path of a wasp.

“Have you got my walking shoes?”

Sam asks, as she settles herself back down on the bench.

From the canvas picnic bag by his feet, Malcolm produces a pair of leather flats for his wife to change into.

Sam makes a point of not saying thank you, as she hands Malcolm her devil shoes, blisters already forming on the tops of her little toes.

“How was the interview?”

Sam rubs some life back into the balls of her feet before answering Malcolm’s question, as she tries to think of a witty, and clever way of throwing the topic of America into conversation.

“So, when were you going to tell me you’d been offered a job in America?”

That’s neither witty nor clever.

“SwinefaceSwift tell ye that did she?”

Malcolm says, as he casually rests one arm against the weathered slats on the back of the bench.

“You knew she was interviewing me, and you didn’t say anything?”

Sam steals the sunglasses of Malcolm’s nose, so she can know exactly when he’s lying.

He sits up.

“Don’t be ridiculous, woman. I’d never set ye up like that, ye my fucking wife.”

Sam opens her mouth to speak, but Malcolm raises one index finger, holding it between them.

“However,”

Sam glares at his finger.

“There are only a handful of people who know about my little job offer, and ol’ Swineface is most definitely one of them.”

Malcolm smiles, the way he used to when they were at Number Ten.

That’s how a Killer Whale probably smiles at its mates, right before it tortures some unsuspecting Seal to death.

“What have you done?”

Sam feels the old frisson trace its way down her spine.

She really shouldn’t be getting turned on by this, but she is.

“Let’s just say, revenge is a dish best served, fucking boiling.”

Sam licks her lips, tasting the hint of pistachio that still lingers.

Then she remembers the way Marianne had looked, the fact that there’s a little boy called Harry who has been abandoned by his Father, and she feels horribly guilty.

“But, he’s left his family, Marianne and their son. Malcolm, Ollie’s just dumped them. Marianne looked terrible, I know she’s a bitch, but the little boy.”

Sam steals a glance in Dean’s direction, the golden haired little boy is busy chasing a chubby, red haired little girl, and is being watched over carefully by his big sister.

“Ollie Reeder is a four carat cunt, and they’re better off without him.”

Sam tares her gaze away, her eyes dropping to her sticky hands resting in her lap.

“People said that about us.”

Sam stares at the way her coffee coloured diamond engagement ring catches the light.

Malcolm doesn’t say anything, until…

“Have ye ever thought, they might have had a point?”

Sam’s head snaps up in attention, she frowns at her husband, who suddenly looks old.

“Never.”

Sam’s voice never falters, she never falters as he response comes completely without thinking, simply flowing from her.

Malcolm ducks his head, and clears his throat.

“The job was the excuse to ditch Swift and the kid, not the reason.”

“So, you’ve essentially tricked Ollie Reeder into taking some crap job, that you never wanted in the first place, but, that he thought you wanted? That’s, that’s…brilliant!” 

Malcolm grins at her, eyes shinning.

Malcolm’s reward for ruining another man’s life, is a quick peck on the cheek, and Sam snuggling her body against his.

He wraps one arm around her tightly, and watches the kids play.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm not to sure about this chapter, but I liked the idea of Malcolm and Sam being caught by the Mail engaging in a rubbish PDA lol...
> 
> Also, I felt the need to do a bit more Sam and Chanelle stuff, as I really like pairing them off together.
> 
> Anyway, read and enjoy, all the kudos is making me very happy.
> 
> Also, the hot and sticky reference to the Natural History Museum is based on the trip I took last weekend with my friend, it was so humid outside, and honestly I thought they had turned up the heating in the museum, it was seriously gross!

Malcolm takes a bite out of his crust free sandwich.

He’s a real fucker for cress, and Sam as usual has remembered to add his filling of choice, along with a selection of cheese rolls, ham and pickle, cheese and ham, the woman has gone to sandwich town.

Their trip around the museum had been hot and sticky, full of screaming children, and parents who recognised Sam, wanted her to sign things, take selfies with them, privacy is something that happens to other people for the Cassidy-Tuckers.

“You must be very proud of your daughter.”

Malcolm winces as he recalls the words of a smartly dressed older woman, who’d stood next to him, slightly out of the way, as Sam had, had her picture taken with the woman’s grandchildren. 

At first Malcolm had hoped she might have been referring to Chanelle, but deep down inside he’d know that she meant him, and who the fuck was he to argue, Sam does look like his daughter, fuck, he’d been nineteen when she was born, if he’d been less careful with Mary McDonald, he could have had a daughter exactly the same age as his wife!

Malcolm gazes at her from the corner of his eye, he’s bloody lovely wife, munching on a carrot, and looking to the entire world the definition of the perfect Mum.

The four of them, Sam, Chanelle, Dean and himself are arranged on a stripy picnic blanket, eating happily.

Malcolm doesn’t care if he looks like his own wife’s Dad, he doesn’t care if he looks like Chanelle and Dean’s Granddad, everyone else can just fuck the fuck off. 

“Ra, ra, ra!”

Dean roars excitedly, as he walks the plush tyrannosaurs toy Malcolm had bought him in the shop as they exited the dinosaur exhibition, across the blanket.

The dinosaurs had gone down the best with the kids, followed by the bugs; Sam had been forced to have her photo taken in front of a tray of long dead spiders by an excited gaggle of American students.

The stuffed part of the exhibition had been the least favourite, all the animals had looked so dead, moth eaten and depressed, they had reminded Malcolm of some of his former work colleagues.

But Sam had even managed to make that interesting, with her perennial scatterings of general knowledge. 

“You’ve been papped.”

Chanelle announces, as she scrolls through Sam’s smartphone.  
“You were seen engagin,”

Chanelle screws her nose up at the word engaging, pausing for a moment before continuing to read.

“…in PDAs with your disgraced, elderly, former New Labour Spin Doctor husband. They’re saying it’s all a front cus you’re getting divorced.”

Chanelle shrugs.

“Elderly!”

Sam exclaims as she reclaims her phone, clearly more distressed by Malcolm being referred to as elderly, than disgraced.

Disgraced isn’t too bad, he’s been called worse, usually crooked, ex-con also pops up a far bit, Former Dark Lord is Malcolm’s personal favourite.

“It’s the Mail, they long lensed us at the museum, those utter…”

Sam appears to suddenly remember Chanelle and Dean, and the sentence abruptly comes to a halt with out its intended sweary conclusion.

Replacing his sunglasses, with his black framed reading glasses, Malcolm drags the phone out of his wife’s hand, and regards a series of images of the pair of them hugging on the bench.

“Is that what passes as a PDA, now?”

He smirks trying to lighten the mood.

The article is less than puff, a couple of grainy shots, mostly of the backs of their heads, with an attached piece about where to find the skirt Sam is currently modelling.

While The Daily Mail has never been a good newspaper, this content in Malcolm’s opinion is simply embarrassing, he pities the poor baby-hack who was forced to cut and paste this together.

Sam however feels different, while Malcolm just wants to laugh, he notes how his wife is sitting straighter, eyeing the horizon line in the park.

Sam of course had suffered the brunt of the fall out from Malcolm’s political demise, in prison he’d been untouchable.

Sam had been stuck on the outside, door stepped, followed down the street, there’d been no escape for her, that’s why she’s developed some what of a phobia related to all things journalistic.

“It’s not funny, Malc, what if they’d got a shot of the kids.”  
Malcolm hadn’t thought of that.

“I’ll call Greg.”

 

Chanelle takes a bite from the middle of her roll, and watches as Malcolm stalks behind a tree with his phone.

“What’s a Spin Doctor?”

She asks Sam mid chew.

“What?”

Sam’s distracted, as she too stares at Malcolm.

“A Spin Doctor, what is it?”

It’s a pale and thoughtful face, which Sam turns on Chanelle.

“A Spin Doctor, well, that’s a sort of name the press made up for the job Malcolm use to do. He used to be the head of communications for the government, the old one, not the coalition, the one before, that.”

Chanelle blinks.

She knows she’s not thick, Laura, Chanelle’s Key Worker, is always telling her how bright she is, and bemoaning the fact that Chanelle doesn’t apply herself.

But what’s the point, why should she bother to try hard and do well at school?

Despite being clever, however hardly any of what Sam has just said makes any sense to Chanelle.

“Did he get the sack, that’s what disgraced means right, like he’s done bad in himself, and lost his job?”

Sam gives Chanelle a worn looking smile, and the girl notices the bags under her eyes.

“That’s spot on, Chanelle.”

Chanelle smiles, taking another bite out of her roll, the cheese is a little tangier than she’s use to, but it’s not totally terrible, but she knows she’s got her work cut out for her introducing Malcolm and Sam to real food.

“You always been a writer?”

Malcolm’s raised voice drifts towards them as he strides through the line of trees.

“No. I use to be a PA.”

“RA!”

Dean gives a loud roar, as Dave, the tyrannosaurus’ head lands smack in the centre of a pot of humus. 

“What’s a PA?”

Chanelle asks, as Sam rescues Dave from the humus wiping his fury face clean with some hand wipes, and presenting him back to Dean.

“He’ll do that again, he thinks it’s funny.”

Chanelle warns Sam, knowing her younger brother all to well.

“I was a Personal Assistant.”

Oh, Chanelle understands the dynamic now, or at least she thinks she does.

“So, you were Malcolm’s sexy secretary?”

Just as Chanelle had expected Dave’s head ends up firmly back in the humus.

“I used to be a Maid-Berry.”

Sam smirks, and the joke is lost on Chanelle.

“Did you have fun at the museum?”

Sam collects Dave wiping him clean once, again, before giving him back to Dean, and putting the lid on the pot of humus, learning from her mistake.

Chanelle had actually had fun in the museum, Dean had loved all of the exhibits, and for the first time in her life, she’d found herself genuinely interested.

She’d never been into a museum before, never thought about one, they were the sort of places that people like Sam and Malcolm chose to spend their weekends, boring and full of dead stuff, but it hadn’t been like that at all.

Alright, so there’d been a fair amount of dead stuff in cases, but it hadn’t been boring, Sam had made it fun.

“Yeah, it was alright.”

Chanelle shrugs, wishing she could articulate her feelings.


	13. The Face of June

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I've decided to go into a little detail about Malcolm's family, mostly his sister.
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and kudos, it means a great deal to know that people are reading and enjoying this.

Malcolm tries to think of what he was doing with Sam, this time last week.

They would have still been stuck in traffic, travelling back from celebrating his sister, Catriona’s birthday in Devon.

Malcolm’s brother in-law, Trevor, had spent his Banker’s Bonus on renting out a converted barn, replete with swimming pool, to mark the special occasion. 

Malcolm had taken the opportunity to explain to Issy and Colin, his niece and nephew about Chanelle and Dean, and how everything being well, they’d have two new cousin’s to get to know.

Colin had briefly glanced up from his great Pokémon hunt on his phone to shrug his shoulders, while Issy had turned a little silent and sulky at the prospect of being replaced in her Uncle’s affections.

It is open knowledge that out of the two children, Issy is Malcolm’s favourite.

Only Issy’s drawings had ever been selected to grace Malcolm’s office walls.

Things between Sam and Catriona had been strained, but peaceable.

Despite the support Catriona had given his wife during his imprisonment, Malcolm is the first to admit that his younger sister isn’t the easiest woman to get on with in the world.

In return Malcolm himself struggles whenever they catch a flight to visit Sam’s parents in Spain, it’s awkward when your parents-in-law are only ten years older than yourself.

But, the weekend in Devon had been fun, despite Colin barely being there mentally, Issy’s sulky little tantrum, Trevor’s compulsion to shoot things, and Catriona going into great detail about getting her silicone implants reduced.

See FUN!

Malcolm had been an only child for much of his early life, then just before his eleven plus, his parents had announced that they were finally having another baby, and Catriona had duly appeared.

In looks thankfully, his sister takes after their Father, Malcolm is the lucky one who inherited their Mother’s nose. 

Red haired, and covered in freckles, Colin and Issy take after their Mum, the three of them look like true Caledonians.

Malcolm had taken the responsibilities of being an older brother very seriously; he still has a strong bond with his little sister. 

At the age of 22, his sister had followed him down to London, throwing in her well paid job at the local library, much to their parents’ chagrin, to try her hand at a singing career.

Catriona still has a great voice, but pretty singers with half decent voices are ten a penny, and it wasn't long until his little sister had swapped dreams of a music career for something a little more realistic. 

The first time Malcolm had learned about his sister’s change of career was when he’d seen her face beaming seductively out at him from the glossy pages of his boss’ office calendar.

While he’d been receiving one almightily bollocking, there Catriona Isobel Tucker had been, completely naked from the waist up, the face of June.

Well, the tits of June.

She’d changed her name to Cheri, because that’s the sort of name girls picked to reinvent themselves with, in the late eighties, and early nineties.

Malcolm Tucker’s sister had been a topless model, in the early days of his career in politics he’d worked hard to try and suppress that fact, but eventually he’d given up, wasn’t that what his party was all about, the working class doing it for themselves?

Catriona’s career lasted about two years in total, before she’d met Trevor the chinless wonder, an affable, six toed fool, with more money than sense, and completely besotted with Malcolm’s sister.

So, Catriona won the marriage lottery with a nice, brainless, millionaire for a husband, and Cheri was duly shot in the back of the head.

Unrecognisable, she plays the part of the Home Counties housewife as if she hadn’t been born in a terraced house in Glasgow, even her accent is softer, a little more Edinburgh sounding than Malcolm likes.

So, this time last week they’d been enduring a tailback, and tonight, tonight has been pretty bloody fantastic.

Before catching the tube home, they’d stopped off in Marks & Spencers, because Sam had decided that home made feta parcels just weren’t going to cut it with the kids.

Chicken fajitas had been suddenly placed on the menu, and Sam had spent an hour putting everything together from scratch, because heaven-for-fend, any of their food should come out of a packet or a jar.

Malcolm had been given two jobs, brown some red onions, and keep the kids entertained.

The onions had turned out a little more black than brown, and Malcolm had brought the newly purchased flat screen down from Chanelle’s bedroom, he and the kids had watched the Shaun the Sheep Movie, while Sam had cooked.

Malcolm laughed at a kid’s film, something he hadn’t done since Colin and Issy had both been very young.

Dean had spent the rest of the evening making BAAH noises. 

Sam’s fajitas had gone down a treat, and their second evening meal together had been a success.

Malcolm knows it won’t always be like this, but tonight is all that really matters.

“Malc, have you fed the rabbits?”

Sam’s question floats in from the living room.

“Yes, I’ve fed the rabbits.”

Malcolm’s calls back, as he finishes loading the dishwasher.

Animals and children, Malcolm Tucker, The Dark Lord of Downing Street, now has a house full of animals and children, how did that happen?

It happened when he married Snow-fucking-White.

Sam has the greatest capacity for love in anyone Malcolm has ever met, she even feels sorry for Ollie Reeder’s devil sprog.

If his wife had her way, SwinefacedSwift and Reeder’s kid, would probably end up living with them.

Malcolm shudders at the thought.

The dishes successfully packed away in the dishwasher, Malcolm pour himself and Sam, a couple of well earned glasses of wine.

With a glass in each had, Malcolm makes his way into the living room, finding Sam and Chanelle sat on the sofa engrossed in the IPad.

“Don’t say I never give ye anything.”

Malcolm smirks as he hands his wife her glass, before settling himself at the other end of the sofa.

Dean has long since been put to bed, a baby monitor sits on the coffee table, in case the little boy should need anything in the night.

“Chanelle helping me go through my music selection for Desert Island Discs, I don’t want to come across as too Indie Amnesty.”

Sam informs him excitedly.

Malcolm doesn’t have the faintest clue, what Indie Amnesty means, nor does he really care, when every muscle in his body is crying out in agony.

Old, fucking, old.

He takes a sip from his wine, and settles into the sofa cushions, listening to Sam and Chanelle as they chatter away, until their voice finally mingle with his snores.


	14. Chanelle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I have kindly lent Malcolm and Sam my very own, actual living rabbits Hetty and Minibar to use as their own lol...
> 
> Warning for this chapter, alluded to suicide and domestic violence.
> 
> Thank you for all the support.

Chanelle opens her eyes.

The sun escapes into her room from a gap at the top of her curtains. 

Her room.

Her curtains.

Her bed, to stretch in as she wishes.

Chanelle stretches.

With her arms above her head, she regards the ceiling looming over her.

It’s a nice, clean white ceiling, no mould, no stains, just white and perfectly painted.

Tomorrow, they will be going back to the children’s home.

Chanelle feels sick at the thought.

If they leave Malcolm and Sam, will Malcolm and Sam forget all about them?

The last couple of days have been great, better than great, Chanelle has never had better times.

That thought makes her feel bad, as if she’s betraying her Mum.

Chanelle loves her Mum.

Things weren’t always bad, in fact before Dean was born things had been good, her Mum had a job, they had a flat, and Chanelle’s Mum wasn’t depressed.

But then Dean’s Dad had come along, and things did get bad, very, very bad.

Chanelle didn’t like to think about that.

Anyway, it wasn’t her Mum’s fault, not really, things just got on top of her, life got on top of her, and the only way out had been…

Well, now Chanelle and Dean are a couple of orphans.

Chanelle decides to shut off her brain by slinging her legs out of bed, then she pull the rest of her body up out of the warmth of her duvet.

Yawning wide, she scratches under her armpit, and then the top of her bushy head, feeling her hair standing up in all directions.

Slipping her feet into her new pair of slippers, Chanelle drags her dressing gown across her shoulders as she wanders out of her bedroom and into the hall.

All three doors are open, the one leading to Dean’s room, The Family Bathroom and Malcolm and Sam’s.

Chanelle is briefly tempted to have a snoop around Malcolm and Sam’s bedroom, but she changes her mind, on the grounds that, that would just be far too creepy.

Everyone else is up.

Chanelle glances down at the old watch strapped to her wrist, she doesn’t like it very much, it’s gold, with a linked chain of a strap, bling, something nice that use to belong to her Mum.

It’s ten o’clock.

Chanelle hurries down the stairs, following the sound of voices.

The kitchen smells like toast and fried bacon.

The French windows are wide open, and through them, Chanelle can see Dean, Malcolm and Sam assembled outside on the decking.

Sam is doing some sort of weird and painfully looking yoga.

Malcolm is drinking from a mug, while flipping idly through a paper.

Dean is holding a massive brown rabbit on his lap.

This is Chanelle’s family.

The thought pops into her head, before she has a chance to squash it down.

She’d promised herself, that she wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t get sucked in, after all Malcolm and Sam can still change their minds.

People change.

Everyone is unreliable. 

But, Chanelle wants this.

“Nelly!”

Dean spots her first, excitedly calling her by his very own nickname for her.

As a rule Chanelle hates nicknames.

Her name is Chanelle, it’s not the best name in the world, it’s not the worst, it’s her name, the thing her Mum gave her, she doesn’t want to hide it, or shorten it, or change it.

Saying that however, Chanelle had been too much of a mouthful for Dean, she doesn’t mind him calling her Nelly.

“Good Morning Chanelle, did you sleep, well?”

Sam asks, with her legs disconcertingly above her head.

Chanelle catches Malcolm looking at Sam with a smirk.

“Yeah, it was, alright.”

That’s it, that’s all she ever seems to say, Malcolm and Sam probably think that’s all Chanelle can say, it isn’t, it’s just sometimes she doesn’t know how to express herself in front of people.

Shouting is her default, but people don’t like it if you shout at them all the time.

Chanelle sits in the one of the empty garden chairs next to Malcolm.

“Well, comfy.”

She adds cringing at her own words. 

“That’s good.”

Sam smiles at her, as she concludes her morning yoga session.

“Now, what do you want for breakfast?”

Sam asks as she rolls up her yoga mat.

Chanelle eyes the crumb filled plate at Malcolm’s elbow.

“Toast, yeah, thanks.”

Dutifully Sam rushes off back into the kitchen to make Chanelle’s toast.

Chanelle watches her go, feeling awkward.

“Look, look.”

Dean captures her attention, with the massive rabbit on his lap.

“What’s it called?”

Chanelle asks Malcolm carefully, noticing how quiet he has been.

Malcolm glances down his considerable nose at the offending rabbit.

“Well Chanelle, you see Sam and I, have very different names for those furry little offenders.”

Chanelle chortles and Malcolm smiles that disconcerting smile of his, way too many teeth are showing. 

“I think Sam calls that one Hetty, whereas I call her FU,”

“FUN!”

Sam appears, handing Chanelle a plate filled with a mountain of toast, if she didn’t know better, she’d swear that Malcolm and Sam were fattening them up for Christmas.

The toast is brown, and pitted with what appears to be seeds, but Chanelle doesn’t complain, besides it doesn’t taste to bad.

Munching away, Chanelle watches as Sam settles herself across Malcolm’s lap, one arm draped around his neck, his hands linked around her waist, holding her in place.

“PDA! PDA!”

Dean booms, jabbing one chubby finger at the pair, having obviously picked up the word from yesterday.

“That’s right Dean. Oh, and The Mail, aren’t around to see it. Nevermind darlin’, you tried.”

Malcolm says, while Sam ignores him and asks.

“So, what do you want to do today?”


	15. The Broken Man and The Damaged Girl.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some serious Malcolm and Chanelle interaction.
> 
> I love the idea, that maybe one day, Chanelle will end up stalking the corridors of Whitehall and Number 10, in exactly the same way that Malcolm did.
> 
> I am a bit sad that, this is coming to an end, but I have some great ideas for this little group, and if any of you have any suggestions please feel free to inspire me.
> 
> Anyway as ever enjoy & thank you.

In the end, since no-one could decide exactly what they wanted to do, they simply spent most of the morning pottering around the garden.

The rabbits have both been stroked within an inch of their fury lives, and are now laying fast asleep in their special run, on top of one another.

Malcolm envies them just a little, because usually at this exact time on a Sunday morning that’s what he’s doing.

Well not lying on top of a rabbit, that would be obscene, and probably/definitely cruel.

But the sleeping part, that’s what he should be doing, all cosy and warm and dead to the world.

This is good too though, he muses as he takes a sip from his mug, wincing as the herbal taste hits his tongue.

One cup of coffee, two if he’s lucky, Sam won’t let him have any more, actually there’s a lot of things his wife won’t let him do, on the grounds of health reasons.

Anyone would think Sam actually wanted him to live longer. 

Malcolm eyes his wife as she goes chasing after the football Colin left behind during one of his visits.

He’s not sure he’s ever been that fit, no wait, Malcolm knows he hasn’t.

He recalls the semi-regular beatings he’d received at school, on account of his ‘poof’ status; anyone who didn’t like football back then was instantly classed as some kind of queer.

All those boys showering together.

There had been a moment, when Malcolm had actually wondered if he might not be gay, he’d kissed Jimmy McCarthy to make sure.

That kiss, Malcolm’s first with another living soul, had been wet, too much tongue and spit and teeth.

It had felt strange, not entirely nasty, not entirely nice, perhaps if he’d been more experienced…

He’d gone to Jimmy’s funeral, they hadn’t really been friends for years, not since they’d both left school, but when Malcolm had heard that his old friend had died, he’d taken the train home.

His proper home, the place where his Mum and Dad had still lived, when they’d both still lived.

The turn out at Jimmy’s funeral had been pitiful, just his parents, a couple of his siblings, Malcolm and his wife Yvonne.

It was the late 80’s a time when people still thought you could catch AIDS from direct contact with a pine box.

Yvonne had looked nice, and she’d been all supportive, and Malcolm had promised himself to try to make more time for her.

That of course had never happened.

Poor Yvonne.

“Why don’t ye join in?”

Malcolm asks, the pensive, and ever watchful girl at his side.

Dean tries to kick the ball to Sam, but he misses it completely, and ends up in a fit of giggles on his bum.

Chanelle tenses, but Sam is on the little boy in a heartbeat, lifting him up into her arms, fussing over him, and then they’re back to playing again, and Sam is trying to teach Dean, how to kick the ball.

“Nah, I don’t like football.”

Or joining in, Malcolm mentally adds.

“What do ye like?”

Reading people is easy, the ticks, the silences, every nuance gives something else away, but Chanelle is guarded, in fact she’s the most guarded person Malcolm has ever met, and he’s had an audience with the Queen.

“Books ‘n’ stuff, I dunno, don’t really think about it.”

Ah reading, the last and best hiding place of the lonely child, and Chanelle is a very lonely girl.

“What are you going to do tomorrow?”

Chanelle’s question wrong foots him a little, because he’d been busy formulating one of his own.

Tomorrow.

The dreaded Monday morning.

Laura the very nice, very young Social Worker is coming to collect the kids at ten.

Malcolm already knows that Sam will cry, and then he’ll cry because Sam is, but that will all be after Chanelle and Dean have actually left the house.

Until then it will all be brave faces.

Life will go back to being grey.

“Sam’s got a thing. I’ll probably go with her, make sure she doesn’t get lost or arrested. What about ye?”

Malcolm takes another sip from his truly horrible herbal tea.

“Dunno.”

Chanelle shrugs, and Malcolm realises that she’s dreading tomorrow just as much as he is.

“Well, that,”

Malcolm is about to finish the sentence when Chanelle interrupts him.

Ordinarily he would have verbally ripped off the face of the said interrupter, but Malcolm can’t do that with Chanelle.

“Sam can’t ever have any kids, can she?”

A shadow falls over the garden.

Malcolm watches Sam for a moment, all sweaty, and breathless, and beautiful.

Sam is the only woman in the world he’s ever truly loved.

No, scratch that, he’d go so far as to say the only person, Sam is the only human-being in the world Malcolm has ever loved, truly, completely.

He loved his parents, and he loves his sister, his nephew and niece, but he’d die happily for Sam.

Just to see Sam’s face.

Malcolm knows why Chanelle picked that particular question to ask, she thinks that if Sam could magically have a baby tomorrow, then they’d forget all about her and Dean, but she’s got no idea exactly how fucking mental his wife actually is, Sam would want them all.

“No.”

Malcolm feels as if the answer has been tortured out of him.

It’s times like this when he wishes he’d started smoking like Sam, and Jamie and everyone else.

Jamie.

Another, shadow in the garden.

He hasn’t thought about that nasty little prick in years.

Jamie’s probably been murdered by now, or more likely, murdered someone.

Well, fuck him.

Chanelle is sitting a little easier in her seat.

“Ye’re stuck with us now kid. Too late to run away, we’d only find, ye.”

Malcolm grins, trying to lift the mood, which has turned sombre.

“I’ve seen the way you run.”

Chanelle cracks a smile.

“Mocking the run now are ye? I’ll have you know, I’ve watched at least two fun runs, I’ve got moves.”

Chanelle laughs, and Malcolm feels the atmosphere around them grow lighter.

He’ll have to watch that, together they’re a maudlin pair, The Broken Man and The Damaged Girl.

“You ain’t got no moves.”

Chanelle is clutching at her side as she giggles at him, she’s on the point of hysterics. 

“Au contraire, I have moves. I’ve got the trainers to prove it. Ye run, wee girl, and ye just see my moves.” 

“Moves?”

Sam appears breathing hard, stealing Malcolm’s mug, draining the contents as Dean continues to play happily with the football behind her.

“Malcolm’s threatening the chase me, he reckons he can run.”

It’s Sam’s turn to burst out laughing.

“What, Mr Penguin?”

Malcolm tries to fix his wife with his best bollocking face, but it just doesn’t stick.  
“Well, to make it fair, we could always tie your shoelaces together, and pull your jeans down around your ankles; he’d probably get within a good mile of you then.”

Malcolm’s never been a fan of banter, he’s not the bantering type, he likes a good argument, a shout, but banter, no, never banter, not until Sam, who is his polar opposite, she hates arguments, shouting, and loves the ol’ banter.

“This from the woman, who waves her arms around as if they were fucking windmills? Flappy fucking hand syndrome, and ye’ve got a terminal case.”

Chanelle creases up all over again, and Sam tells Malcolm off for dropping the f-bomb, TWICE.

“Ball!”

Dean calls out excitedly, as he aims one strong kick at the ball, and manages to hit Malcolm smack in the face.


	16. Four Months Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, that's it the laster chapter, thank you to everyone who has commented and to everyone who has read this, it means a lot.
> 
> I'm planning some shorter stories with this crew.
> 
> Chanelle's last name is Smith and Dean's is Kline, so hopefully there won't be too much confusion at the end.
> 
> In case you don't know who Louise Brooks is & what her amazing hair looks like, here are some links http://lostcomet.com/sites/default/files/_uploads_cck/field_image/louise_brooks_01.jpg
> 
> Sam's party outfit- http://www.polyvore.com/untitled_15/set?id=207098004
> 
> Also, I just loved the idea of Sam forcing Malcolm to watch Game of Thornes lol

Four Months Later.

The nights have started to draw in.

Under the orange splash of a nearby street light are the husks of several dead leaves.

Autumn is here, and to coin the popular phrase from one of Sam’s favourite television shows, Winter is Coming.

But, it’s a nice night for a walk.

They haven’t done much of this lately, haven’t had the time, what with one thing, and the other.

Still, Malcolm doesn’t really understand why the taxi couldn’t have just dropped them outside their front door as it had been hired to do, why Sam had insisted on them getting out a mile up the road.

Here they are, strolling along, the taxi long left behind, Sam with her arm through his, their hands joined in his big coat pocket, she couldn’t get much closer if she tried, well she could, but…

Malcolm’s got his phone out, clutching at it with his free hand, scrolling down the listing, waiting for the seconds to count down until the auction ends. 

“Is that for me? Is it something for my birthday?”

Sam asks, craning her head to try and see the screen, Malcolm angles the phone away from her.

“It’s the middle of September.”

Sam’s birthday is on the 31st Ocotber, Halloween, until Malcolm discovered this fact, he’d had no idea that people were actually born on Halloween, the most commercial and ridiculous day in the entire calendar, barring Easter and Christmas Day. 

And because Sam’s birthday is on Halloween, and she just loves dressing up with all her moronic friends, they always end up having some awful fancy dress party, where Malcolm always goes as himself, during the Downing Street Years.

Nobody ever gets it except Sam.

Certainly grounds for divorce. 

“Is it something good, can I see it? I promise, I’ll still be surprised. I can do surprise well, look.”

They stop, and Malcolm dutifully watches as Sam pulls the most ridiculous face he has ever seen.

“I’m sorry; you should have told me back at the thing, that you needed to go to the toilet.”

She hits him on the arm for that, hard. 

Sam’s laughter leaves her body in a plume of white steam.

“You’re the second worst husband, I have ever had.”

Tugging at the lapel on his jacket, Sam pulls Malcolm in for a surprise kiss.

She’s deceptively strong, both in body and will.

Sam’s lips taste like wine and pastry, and Malcolm doesn’t get that long to enjoy them because she’s pulling away and walking on.

Malcolm doesn’t wait to find out if his bid on Sam’s birthday present has been successful; instead he simply folds the phone back into his pocket, and quickly follows after his wife, and her invisible lead.

He’s not the sort of person that buys presents for people on online auction websites, but this is something that he knows Sam will just love, something that has always been special to her. 

They are on their way back from a literary dinner, an event at Sam’s publishing house, all free wine and finger food, and authors, lots of authors desperate to not seem desperate, to talk about their work.

Sam has drunk a little more than she usually does, well does now, their was a period a while back when Malcolm had been concerned about his wife’s intake of strong spirits, but he hadn’t said anything, couldn’t bring himself to do it.

In the end it had all sorted itself out, as these things often do, Sam had stopped smoking like a chimney, and she’d cut down on the old booze as well, but every now and then, when she gets nervous, Malcolm still finds himself, mentally measuring the amounts of wine in the fridge. 

She’s not drunk though, and neither is Malcolm, he’d limited himself to one glass of wine, and then survived off water for the rest of the night.

He’d stopped properly drinking in his thirties, when he’d still been a journalist.

Fleet Street had been full of soaks, still is, hiding a bottle of whiskey in your bottom drawer was perfectly normal, acceptable behaviour, so was being half cut at eleven in the morning, and meetings held in the pub.

In the early days Malcolm had happily partook, keen to fit in, but slowly after a while his work had begun to suffer, he’d had more arguments with Yvonne that he dared to count, and one after one, the people around him had slowly become alcoholics.

So, he’d gotten out before he’d become just another gin addled zombie, kicked the habit and stuck to good old fashioned water, or orange juice.

It didn’t improve his marriage, but it had done wonders for his career, and his liver, which is probably the only part of his body not subject to horrific abuse, because everything else below his neck is fucked.

Sam settles herself against the side of Malcolm’s body, wrapping both her arms around his.

Smiling against the top of her head, Malcolm still can’t quite believe that Sam is here with him.

She’s after all so lovely, so radiant; she’d been the most beautiful woman in the room.

People had watched her, men and women, and then they’d watched him, and he’d known they were trying to work out the HOWS and WHYS, someone like Sam would be with someone like him.

Well, fuck them all.

They’ve both had new hair cuts, Sam is a little more drastic than his own, which was a simple shearing of the sheep.

Sam has opted for a Louise Brooks’, and it suits her, all glossy and sleek, with a fringe.

Malcolm especially likes the fringe.

“You were really good, tonight.”

Sam grins up at him, it’s not often she gives him a compliment that isn’t wrapped in a fair amount of mocking and irony.

He doesn’t know what to say.

“I’m really proud to be your wife.”

Malcolm is too busy being stricken, that he doesn’t notice that only one of Sam’s hands is now wrapped around his arm, or the fact that her other is busy fishing his phone out of his pocket.

“HA!”

Having won her bounty, Sam types in the code on the screen lock, and immediately begins searching for her present.

“Oh darlin’ wife, do ye really think I’d be that foolish?”

Malcolm had erased his search history, before the phone had ever landed in his pocket.

He knows Sam far, far to well.

“It was worth a try.”

Sam admits as she hands him back his phone, unanimous in the face of defeat.

“Ye can try again later if you like, in that lacy basque, that’s at the back of ye're knicker drawer.”

“That moth eaten old thing, oh please. I’ll have to shake the dust of it first, that is, after I’ve blown the cobwebs off your cock.”

Malcolm laughs, catching Sam around her waist, burying his face in the exposed portion of her neck, so soft, and warm, and Sam.

“What will The Daily Mail, say.”

She giggles.

“That one of us is definitely fucking the milkman.”

He says, against her skin, she arches her throat against his lips, giving him better access, he sinks his teeth into her perfect, white skin.

“Oh God, Malc!”

“What time do you call this?”

The front door, their front door, which Malcolm is on the point of dry humping Sam against, suddenly opens, and their Chanelle stands in her leopard print onsie, arms crossed against her chest.

The babysitter appears behind her, looking horrified.

“Ah, well you see, Chanelle, it’s like this.”

Utterly humiliated, Sam buried her head in Malcolm’s shoulder, he can feel her laughing against him, the woman is absolutely no help.

“We agreed, 10:30, its 10:45.”

Malcolm and Sam untangle their limbs, and he notes that his wife can’t quite bring herself to look at their adopted daughter.

“We’re very, sorry.”

Sam grins as she takes Malcolm by the hand, leading him into the warmth of their home.

And the door closes on the Smith-Kline-Cassidy-Tucker residence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
